


Betwixt Hunter's Nightmare and Dreamsleeve

by FanficsbyVe



Series: Lost Souls On Nirn [3]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 118,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9451919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsbyVe/pseuds/FanficsbyVe
Summary: When the Hunter's Nightmare perishes, its lost souls transcend to another world. FINISHED.





	1. Boon of Hermaeus Mora

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to "Beyond the Abyss and Oblivion" and "Between the Nexus and Mundus". You don't need to read either to understand this story, though some of the characters and events cross over between them. It's basically just Bloodborne characters going to Skyrim.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micolash plumbs the depths of knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially wasn't planning to include Micolash, but he was a popular request. Besides, he worked well with Hermaeus Mora. He wanted eyes, now he's getting them. XD

“Now I’m waking up! I’ll forget everything…”

Micolash didn’t want to wake up. Not now. Not when he was so close.

Yes, he was close. He could feel it. Any time now, Kos would have heeded his prayers. She would have granted him eyes. Eyes on his brain. She would have cleansed him from his beastly idiocy, help him ascend to a higher plane. She would have cured him of all his hesitation and make it all worth it in the end.

Yet now, that hope was shattered. He could feel himself torn from the dream as that idiotic Hunter struck the final blow. He cursed him, before he was hurled back through time and space, no doubt to be reunited with his body. So much sacrifice, so much reasoning with himself to go through with it, and now, it was all gone.

Inwardly, he was raging and seething, but he knew nothing could be done. He would simply have to wake up, same as the other members of the School of Mensis. They would have to acquire the necessary means for another ritual. It was tricky, no doubt, but not impossible. Besides, Mergo had been sympathetic to their goals before. He was likely to grant them access to the dream once more…

So he waited. With the patience of a man who knew it was the only thing he could do, he waited to return to his own body. As the hours, then days and then perhaps months dragged by, he calmly awaited the moment to once again wake up in Yahar’Gul. 

Yahar’Gul, however, remained elusive and in time, the vast expanses of the cosmos gave way to the deepest of darkness. His conscious continued to float, to be trapped in a never-ending world beyond the physical and the longer it lasted, the more uncertain he became. 

Until, at some point, he heard a voice.

“Ah, another forlorn soul, sacrificing his life on the altar of knowledge.”

Its sound, the first he’d heard in so long, had Micolash look up eagerly. He was so desperate for some sign of life, some indication of change or progress that he welcomed any kind of distraction. So he turned towards the voice, eagerly, wanting nothing more than to see.

What a sight it was.

Above him hovered a strange being that defied description. The best way he could describe it was a void, living and pulsing. An endless spiral that moved inward and outward al at the same time. From it slithered countless black tentacles and countless slit yellow eyes stared at him with rapt fascination.

Instantly, the scholar was beset by terror, yet in the very depths of his being, there was also an odd sliver of excitement. This being, almost too horrific to behold… Could it be? It had to be…

“Oh… Oh! My wish was granted! Are you… Are you Kos?”

A deep slithery laughter shook everything around him. It caused a deep sense of revulsion to bubble up inside him. It regarded him with twisted amusement, its slit pupils curiously darting back and forth.

“I am not your precious Kos. She is long gone from what I sense. In fact, so are you.”

His voice was calm, a lazy drawl laced with cruel indifference. It was enough to force ice into the veins of the bravest men. Yet what truly drove fear into the heart of Micolash was the claim he’d just made.

“N-No. No, you lie. Kos is a Great One. Great Ones cannot die. I am not dead either. I am merely dreaming and trying to wake up...”

The being burst out into howling laughter. Several dark and liquid tentacles slithered in his direction. The scholar stood frozen, warily eyeing the appendages as bile formed in his throat.

“Ah, the human mind. Ever clinging onto the hope of immortality. Unfortunately, Micolash, your time has run out. Your god is dead.”

Suddenly images started to flash before his eyes. They assaulted his vision, even when he tried to close his eyes. It always felt like they were burning his retinas, so gruesome was content of what they showed him. 

He was on a beach, but he’d be damned if he recognized it. On it lay a large, strange white creature, motionless and decaying, surrounded by many strangers in Hunter garb. A Great One, he knew, but he could only scream in horror as the men and women proceeded to violate her corpse in every conceivable way. A horrid, deformed humanoid was drawn from her dead womb, shrieking in confusion and horror at being thrust into this cold, bleak world. 

Merely watching it made him sick, but it was nothing compared to what he was shown next. The vision of a body sitting on a chair with a Mensis Cage on his head. It was atrophied beyond recovery, well within the process of mummification. It unnerved him beyond words, but as he inched closer, he finally realized it.

The body was indeed his.

He stepped back, trembling all over. His knees buckled and for a moment, he swore he would faint. Only now did it really get through to him. He was never going to wake up again… He had no body left to wake up in.

“No. No, no, no, no… It can’t be! It wasn’t supposed to be like this! I don’t… I don’t want to go yet! I don’t want to die!”

The being seemed rather apathic to his agony. “You are no more, Micolash. Your ritual has failed, your soul is fading. This is the end for you. Unless, of course, you are willing to make a deal.”

The scholar looked up at that last word, goosebumps rippling across his skin. “A deal?”

The sheen in those yellow eyes intensified. “An exchange of knowledge. You know many things, Micolash. Many…fascinating things. You are a scholar, yes? Who wants to learn any interesting things. I can provide that for you as well as your continued existence. All for those lovely little morsels you hold in your head.”

Micolash could feel his entire body grow cold. A deal. A deal to save his life. The animalistic part of him leaped at the opportunity. Who didn’t want to avert death when they were staring it in the eye? Still, even in his fractured mind, he managed to ask the important question.

“If not Kos, then who are you?”

He could practically feel satisfaction radiate from the void. “I am Hermaeus Mora. Daedric Prince of Fate, Knowledge and Memory. A Great One, as your kind would call me. And what I offer you is not something I offer to any mere mortal. Though of course, you are welcome to refuse and let your spirit fade away. Though it is such a shame that all of your efforts will have been for naught…”

The almost casual tone he wielded once again caused Micolash’s fear to rise. The reality of death once again encroached on him, clear as glass. He would forget if he died and all the knowledge and revelations he had acquired would die with him. It was too much to take.

“So, what say you, scholar? Do you accept my offer?”

The strange Great One needn’t say more. The idea that he and all his precious work might be wiped from existence was too frightening to face. He had made up his mind. He was willing to make a deal. 

“I do. Behold the eyes in my brain, oh Hermaeus Mora. So you might grant me life and add more.”

The void started at him, then laughed. “Very well. Stand closer, scholar, so you can receive what you’ve bargained for.”

Again, there was that ominous undercurrent in his voice, but Micolash knew it was now too late to have second thoughts. He stepped up towards the being, trying to ignore whatever sense of revulsion he felt. He took a deep breath, waiting for what was to come.

“This will probably hurt.”

The scholar didn’t get the time to respond to that gleeful announcement. Like a snake pouncing on a mouse, hundreds of tentacles leaped from the void. Like a volley of spears, they aimed at his head and then without warning, impaled him through his skull.

He would have screamed at the unimaginable pain, but it practically numbed him upon contact. The extent of it should have made him pass out, but instead, he remained completely conscious as he felt the tentacles writhe and burrow into his brain. He could feel them probe his thoughts and memories, the sensation of which was almost worse than the physical agony.

It was almost as if those things were feeding, his harrowed mind thought. Searching for proper prey to devour. He could feel them probe his memories of Rom, the School of Mensis, Mergo… It was devoured eagerly, scrapped from the recesses of his mind like the remnant of a delectable meal. And the pain… By the Great Ones, the pain...

It went on, on and on for hours. In the end, his nerves were so frayed that he started to lose consciousness. He could feel himself pass out and he did nothing to fight it. Anything to get a reprieve from the torture.

_“The grand lake of mud, hidden now, from sight.”_

A lake…

He was in water, somehow…

As his eyes opened, he saw it. All around him, there was water. Deep emerald in color, soaking him to the bone, and something in it threatened to pull him under.

Feeling his strength rapidly being sapped from him, Micolash started to swim. The strange bindings resisted, exerting even more strength in an attempt to pull him under the waves. He fought, looking around as panic rose inside him, a sliver of hope overcoming him upon seeing a solid surface nearby.

He swam, struggling against the force that tugged at him, possessed by a strength he didn’t know he was capable of. When he reached the surface, a strange metal grating and withered rock, he clamped his fingers around it, hanging on with all his might. His strength was fading, but he refused to give in.

As he slowly inched out of the water, he could see what was holding him. Thick black tentacles, similar to the ones who had buried in his head before. The sight of them had fear wash over him and it only increased his sheer determination to get out of the water. Sheer terror drove him forward and scraping at the metal by the edges of his nails, he finally managed to loosen the grip of the appendages as he crawled onto the grate, gasping for breath and shivering heavily.

“Well, you actually survived. You are truly stronger than most.”

An amused, inhuman voice rang far above the scholar, making him look up. Above him loomed that familiar void, filled with eyes and tentacles. Again, there was that sense of dread looming in the back of his mind. 

He looked around and it only grew. The world he looked at was strange and that was putting it diplomatically. The sky was sickening shades of green and red and he seemed to be standing on an island of metal and stone, amidst that threatening green sea. Black tentacles slithered out of it every now and then and everywhere, bodiless eyes seemed to watch him. Yet what he noticed most of all were numerous pages, spread all over the island and whirling through the air.

“What… What is this place?”

“This is Apocrypha, where all knowledge is hoarded.”

He nodded at this information without realizing it. So this was a library of sorts… Though he’d be damned if it was like any kind of library he was familiar with or any place where humans were meant to be. This was definitely not the world he had anticipated to return to. 

The entity sensed his discomfort. “I have kept my word, scholar. You are alive, are you not?”

Again, there was that underlying feeling of malice and as angry as Micolash started to feel, he decided not to respond. It slowly started to dawn on him that he might have just made a deal with the devil. Perhaps not one that the church before the Healing Church believed in, but nefarious all the same. 

Even now, it leisurely stared at him, seemingly none too concerned for his plight. “You are free to explore my realm to your heart’s desire. Perhaps you will prove clever enough to uncover the secrets here. If so, welcome. If not, then you will not find much peace here. Good luck, Micolash.”

Before the scholar could respond, the being was gone and he found himself looking over the eldritch landscape all by himself. Suddenly, he felt cold. Here he was, with his knowledge of the dream intact…but with no one to share it. 

Still, even in his muddled and damaged mind, he realized he couldn’t simply stand there. With the green sea murmuring behind him and tentacles slithering in and out, looking for prey. Staying here would be suicide. There was no other option but to keep moving and explore this realm.

The scholar set off, looking around the strange island. His eye soon fell onto a strange pedestal and after cautiously touching it, it changed shape. Suddenly, an iron, grated walkway literally unfurled before him and he quickly realized there was no way but forward. 

Soon, Micolash’s time was occupied with taking in both the wonders and the horrors of the realm. It was clearly not a place made with humans in mind and whatever was left of his sanity was constantly sending off warning signals. He wouldn’t have listened to it even if he could. There was no escape anymore; all he could do now was survive.

The plane was hostile and more than a few things in it made him uneasy, but there seemed to be a method to madness. He quickly figured out that using the pedestals in certain ways would open paths and that some of the hallways were alive and moved by themselves. That some of the books could be used to travel to other sections of Apocrypha. He had to work out several ways to traverse them safely, but they were far from the only threats here. 

Strange monsters, looking not unlike ascending members from the Healing Church, would patrol the passages, willing to strike down any living being that came near him. They possessed horrifying powers, ones he didn’t dare to tangle with, and once or twice, he would come by the remains of those who had. He would take what he could of those, including their robes which seemed to be in far better shape than his, and would instead sneak past any of the terrifying enemies he encountered.

He never slept and for some reason, he never went hungry either. Time seemed meaningless and the sky remained the same dull colors, never indicated either night or day. With every step he took, every new path he discovered, he was drawn deeper into Apocrypha and he swore he could feel eyes sprout on his brain with every new, unsettling discovery he made.

He made plenty of those. Just like Hermaeus Mora promised, this place was filled with knowledge. Countless books, containing many strange and miraculous stories, just his for the taking. Many a times, he was held up from his explorations and simply sat down to read, eagerly devouring tome after tome. 

The books told him many interesting things. They talked about strange creatures, spells, unknown races, weaponry and alchemy. They told him of a million strange realms, inhabited by beings called Aedra and Daedra, similar to the Great Ones he had feverishly prayed to for most of his adult life. 

He had to say he soon became absorbed by it all. By the endless tomes that made up this plane and provided him with knowledge beyond his wildest dreams. Every day, he could feel his mind expand. The taste of unknown wisdoms, waiting for him to be consumed. The thought made him downright ecstatic. 

Perhaps, he figured, staying here would not be such a punishment after all. He could make do. Simply hide in the many dark corners of this place, tugged away with whatever book he managed to scavenge. Forever learning. Forever growing more powerful and wise.

Oh, how they scoffed at the Healing Church. They laughed and derided, telling the School of Mensis that their attempts to commune with Mergo were a waste of time. He might not have contacted Kos, but what he found was so much sweeter. His wish had come true at last. Finally, he was granted eyes.

“You! Hey, you!”

The sound of a voice snapped Micolash from his enraptured concentration. He looked up, an angered expression on his face, only for his eyes to grow wide. In front of him was another human being.

He blinked, certain he must be dreaming. He hadn’t seen another living being here since he arrived…how long ago was it again? The scholar looked him over. He was clearly an older man, dressed in mage robes, and with a thick gray beard. There was a crazed gleam in his eye, but any further investigation was cut short as the man shoved a book in his face.

“Can you read this?”

Micolash recoiled, frowning at him. “What?”

He got a grunt in response. “Septimus wants to know if you can read this! Tell me! Can you read this?”

The book was shoved closer to his face and knowing that the stranger was unlikely to leave him alone, he acquiesced. His eyes swiftly trailed across the lettering, which looked alien and unlike any writing he’d seen. Thankfully, he’d spent enough time on this eldritch plane to decipher it. It was a book about black magic and otherworldly knowledge, he determined, a read he might be interested in himself at a later point. 

“Yes, I can. What of it?”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Read to me! Read! Tell me what it says about leaving this realm! What does it say?”

The scholar could only stare. Why would anyone want to leave this realm? This treasure trove of eldritch wisdom, the true place from which one could ascend? How could one be so ungrateful? 

Still, when he realized the man would not leave him alone, he relented and read the page presented to him. “Black Books are esoteric tomes, Daedric Artifacts created by the esteemed Hermaeus Mora. They offer access to and from his realm of Apogrypha. Some appear to have been written in the ancient past, while others appear to be written in the far future. They are much sought after as they contain hidden knowledge that grant the reader great power.”

As he finished reading, Micolash had to admit he was now intrigued. These books sounded like something he would be interested in. After all, great power was why he’d undertaken this endeavor in the first place. If only he could find one of those…

The old man, however, was far more excited for other reasons. “That’s it! That’s it! The Black Book! That’s how I get out! That’s how I’ll leave this wretched Oblivion!”

He was practically skipping up and down now, but the scholar didn’t get the time to verbally express his annoyance. Suddenly, a loud rumble shook the ground and several more eyes opened in the sickly sky above. The sound of angry tentacles trying to burrow their ways across the island closed in from all sides. Yet all of it was a mere whisper compared to the thundering voice of Hermaeus Mora. 

“Septimus Signus! This knowledge was not meant for you!”

Instantly, he could see the old man shrink. He looked around, eyes wide with terror. He clutched the strange book to his chest, only to then utter four frantic words.

“I have to go!”

Then, swifter than anyone his age should, he whipped around and started to run. He started sprinting through the dark corridors, making good speed as the distance between them increased. Still clutching that fascinating book… 

That tidbit caused Micolash to perk up. “Hey! Hey wait! I want that!”

Instantly, he pulled himself to his feet and started to run, his other reading material instantly forgotten. He sprinted after the old man, not caring if he was seen or what was in his way. He kept calling after him, this Septimus, begging him to drop the book, to let him have it. 

He ran through corridors, up staircases and across walkways, dodging the tentacles that lashed out in an effort to swat both him and the old man. He followed him through the books, not caring he alerted the strange monsters in the vicinity. He was deaf to their roars, too quick for their claws and spells. Nothing mattered until he was able to get his hands on that book.

So blind was he that he barely even noticed the gigantic lurking monster until it leaped right in front of him. It opened its jaws and the scholar remained frozen in horror as long, slithery tentacles spewed forth from it, combined with corrosive slime. He willed a hand upwards, to defend himself with one of the many spells he’d learned in this place, but found it utterly limp as the monster inched closer, ready to devour him.

Suddenly, however, a burst of flame erupted on the creature’s skin. It let out a furious, pained roar, enough to rattle Micolash’s very bones. He looked up in shock, only to find Septimus standing there, book still in hand. The old man quickly readied another spell and flung it at the creature as it came charging towards him, fearlessly facing it as it did its best to annihilate him.

For some reason, witnessing this stranger’s steadfastness shook the scholar out of his daze. He too now started to cast spells, determined to bring this monster down and survive in the process. He had to now. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if something happened to that book…

So he fought. He fought and ran and evaded the monster’s spells, meanwhile retaliating with those of his own. Septimus joined him in the attack, pelting the creature with anything from fire, ice and lightning to terrifying elemental thralls. He cared little for any counter attacks, shrugging them off with stubborn resilience, viciously shouting strange curses at his aggressor with every new strike. 

Soon, the two of them were working in tandem, giving it all that they could. The old man’s courage inflamed Micolash’s own, making him bolder as he cast ever more destructive and intricate spells. A swift distraction tactic on Septimus’s part had it momentarily distracted and with a perfect shot of the creature’s already wounded head, he struck.

Finally, the lurking monster could take no more. As a burst of lightning hit it square in the brain, it collapsed. The ground shook as it did so, putting the scholar off-balance for the briefest of moments. Only then did he realize he was gasping for breath and shaking on his legs, but he didn’t have very long to think about it.

Septimus was moving again, still holding the book he wanted.

Cursing under his breath, he resumed the chase. They moved higher and higher, with Micolash begging and demanding the man to simply give him what he wanted. His pleas, however, were ignored and he soon saved his breath of scaling the staircases, just hoping they would end eventually and he would be able to corner the old man and snatch the book.

After what seemed like forever, he got his wish. The grated walkway revealed a dead end, with a large pedestal near the edge. A large black tome rested on top of it and Septimus rushed towards it. He flipped it open, frantically trying to read its contents. The scholar was not far behind, ready to strike, only to stop dead in his tracks.

Out of nowhere, the void materialized once more. A million eyes opened, all of them focused on the man at the pedestal. Tons of razor sharp tentacles manifested, ready to impale its prey. They shone with fury and its normally languid, amused voice now shook with unbridled rage. 

“You foolish sorcerer. Do you honestly think you can escape my realm? That you can escape death? I reduced you to dust once, I can do so again!”

The old man faced him, his voice defiant. “Septimus got this far, you Daedric fiend. Besides, I learned a lot while I was trapped here. Just watch.”

With those words, he put his hands on the book and started chanting. The Daedric Prince responded with a furious roar, its tentacles stretching out in an effort to stop him. The sorcerer simply summoned wards, calmly continuing his spell, refusing to move from the pedestal as an almost amused tone became evident in his voice.

The scholar could only watch this display in shocked silence, hesitating on what to do. Something told him he didn’t want to get in the God’s way, that he would be smitten alongside this wizard if he tried to interfere. Unless, perhaps, if he interfered in the powerful Lord’s favor? 

His face lit up at that thought. That could work. He wanted that book and the Daedric Prince wanted to prevent this man from leaving this place. No doubt he would gain the Lord of Knowledge’s favor if he’d help him in that regard, maybe even earn the book for himself. Perhaps, Hermaeus Mora would reward him for his loyalty with even more knowledge…

That, for him, was the carrot on the stick that moved him forward. Having made up his mind, he charged up to the old man. He threw his arms around him, pulling with all his might to get him away from the pedestal. The old man struggled, trying his best to fight him off as he continued his spell, but Micolash was relentless. Meanwhile, his eager hands grasped for the tome, while he screeched on top of his lungs to give it to him. 

Yet just as he managed to grab hold of it, there was a flash of green. It made him jump, but just as he recovered, Septimus had finished his chant. The scholar screamed, begging nothing in particular for the spell not to work, only for his vision to rapidly start going black. He tried to fight it to no avail, crying out for Hermaeus Mora to help him, and as a violent pull and humming noise overtook him, the last he heard was the thunder of the Daedric Prince’s voice, cursing them for a thousand lifetimes.

Once more, the scholar found himself hurling through infinity. He was pulled through what seemed like endless planes, hurled past strange planets. He saw beings that defied imagination. Countless images flashed before him, in rapid succession, fast and insistent enough for his brain to twitch. So much so that in the end, he just closed his eyes and prayed for it to end.

When Micolash could finally open them again, however, the visions were gone. Instead, he was looking up at what seemed like a normal sky and the tops of some old, withered trees. It reminded him of the forests surrounding Yharnam, he realized. Those that were still there when he was still a child…

That thought spurred him into action. He sat up, panicked, and looked around. Was he back in Yharnam? He was alive, felt that way at least, and the hot wind in his face felt all too real. Had Apocrypha been a dream as well? Had he finally woken up? Was he finally going to forget everything and lose all his knowledge?

Just as he was about to ask this out loud, however, another voice was heard beside him. “Wait is this… This is… Solstheim! We are on Solstheim! I made it! I made it!”

The scholar looked over his shoulder, only for his jaw to hang open. Beside him was the man from Apocrypha. He was practically jumping for joy, kicking up the ashen sand in a strange sort of victory dance. The smile on his face made him look years younger and he soon fell onto his knees, raising his hands to the sky.

“Free! Oh, thank the Divines! Septimus is free!”

Micolash could only watch him in astonishment and anger. So Apocrypha had not been a dream after all… Then how on earth was this man so happy to be gone from it? A land of plenty, allowing humanity to rise above their beastly idiocy, and this foolish old man had spat in the face of it. And even now, he still had that strange tome…

He got to his feet, seething. He’d teach him. He’d teach him for taking him from his beloved haven. He’d tear that book from his hands and beat it with him, forever make him rue the day he took his aspirations of eyes on his brain away from him…

Before he got the chance to do so, however, the old wizard shoved the book into his hands, laughing loudly as he did. “Have it! Have this blasted book! I will go back home. Back to Winterhold! Back to regular experiments away from Dwemer and Daedra! Oh, it’s so good to be back on Nirn.”

The sudden weight of the tome startled Micolash and he looked at Septimus in utter shock. He opened his mouth to say something, but the man had already turned around and walked away, to some unknown destiny, practically skipping as he went. Soon, the scholar was alone with only the book he’d so coveted to keep him company.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, however, he decided he might as well read it. He read the title, which seemed to be _Oghma Infinium_ and opened it, eagerly scanning the contents. Yet rather than the satisfying rush he felt before when reading, all he felt now was an unsettling chill. 

Something about this book wasn’t right. The same way he recalled feeling when he met Hermaeus Mora for the first time. The way it read. The dark knowledge it suggested in swirling, eldritch lettering. The way it seemed bound in what felt like several shreds of…skin. There was something horribly wrong and askew with it and what it could be used for. 

The same way he had once felt when looking upon an umbilical cord…

He could feel his heart stop for the slightest of moments. Just why did he recall that feeling? Why now of all time? Why was he actually recoiling at the thought of unlimited knowledge rather than embracing it, with the kind of instinctual fear he’d once displayed as a naïve young scholar? He didn’t know for certain, but perhaps it had something to do with this place. Something about suddenly tasting a sense of normalcy he had long forgotten about.

Perhaps it had been Yharnam or Apocrypha that drowned out this feeling before. Being surrounded daily with other obsessed minds that had hushed their own rational doubts and those of others. An echo chamber, that willfully ignored what kos or Mergo or Hermaeus Mora might actually represent in full. In the end, it didn’t matter. Right now, he felt something he hadn’t experienced ever since he joined the Healing Church and it was overtaking all his senses.

Clarity, at the forefront of his mind and guiding his thoughts for the first time in years.

“I must take this book. Hide it. Put it some place where no one will ever find it… It should never fall into the wrong hands…”

And with that thought standing out in his mind, like a beacon against the darkness, he started to walk, clutching the tome tightly against him. This wasteland was unlikely to last forever, after all, and if this Septimus knew where to go, then there was likely life around here. If anything, perhaps that strange wizard could still be caught up with and was able to give him some advice on what had to be done.

After that… He didn’t know. It didn’t matter for now. All he had to do for now was do the right thing and the rest would be a bridge he’d cross later. 

That seemed like a solid plan for now. His first real one in this strange place, but it was all he had to go on. So he moved, following the sorcerer’s footsteps. Uncertain but bravely, into a plane unknown.


	2. Oghma Infinium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rom recalls a forgotten past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some regular readers have been quietly alluding to the existence of Micorom. While I don't ship it (and likely never will), I did look it up while writing this chapter. So if some implied Micorom slipped in here, I place all blame squarely on the shoulders of Densiel and Bellringerkat on tumblr. XD
> 
> Additionally, I used Bellringerkat's art of Rom for a guideline on her human appearance. The background story of the character is entirely mine though. I hope people will enjoy it.

The Vacuous Rom, she was called by the scholars of Byrgenwerth.

The Byrgenwerth Spider. The Dreamcatcher. The guardian of the secret that master Willem left in the lake. This was the creature the students of the fabled academy whispered about and whose existence those of the School of Mensis bemoaned. 

The name on their lips was that of an ascended being. Of one who managed to commune with Mother Kos, before she washed up on a beach and died giving birth to her wizened child. It mattered not that it had left her mind in tatters. The creature she was now was far more captivating than the woman she once was. 

Yet now, she was dead. Slaughtered by a Hunter, all to uncover the secret left at the lake. Her death was swift and brutal and the last thing going through her otherwise empty and damaged mind was somehow knowing that the world might be doomed.

Beyond that, however, she no longer had any thoughts. No fear of death. No relief that her long, arduous task was finally over. There was just an infinite blankness to slowly turned to dark as her mangled, ascended body ceased to be.

As such, she couldn’t even conjure any sense of surprise or shock when, at one point, there was no lake and no darkness. Instead, she was in a room of sorts. Not one she recognized, but it was unlikely she would have even if it was familiar to her. Nor did she have any clue of the strange creature that suddenly approached her.

“Hello, Rom.”

She turned in its direction, not even because she recognized her name but simply due to the sound. Somewhere in the deepest crevices of her mind, it occurred to her that it looked like nothing she had ever seen. Its features were vaguely human, but rather narrow and alien, with knife-shaped ears. Its skin was golden in color, as were its hair and kind, gentle eyes that looked at her with an expression she couldn’t discern. She scrambled back, startling the being.

“Do not be afraid. I will not harm you. I only want to help you.”

Rom didn’t understand, wasn’t sure if she cared if she did. Yet at that point, she found that she could no longer move and any attempt to call upon her powers was futile. A primal sliver of fear ran through her deformed body, but she was helpless as the golden humanoid approached and put its hands on her head.

“By all the planes… Your mind is really damaged… Such a pity. It seems like such a beautiful mind too…”

Her large, insectoid body started quivering. A primal sense of fear took over. For some reason, she felt this creature was powerful and it frightened her to her core.

“Well, I guess we will have to start at the beginning then.”

Suddenly, the Kin could feel how something started to twitch inside her brain. At the same time, the strange room they were in started to rumble. The golden being now seemed to be sitting in a chair of some sort and it seemed it was…weaving. 

Like a spider spinning a web, it started working on some tapestry of unknown material and with every movement and turn, she could feel her own head bending and morphing. It was terrifying and painful, yet no matter how much she struggled, she could do nothing to stop it. So she thrashed, helplessly, until something strange finally came over her.

Suddenly, there was a flicker of a memory. Something deep and profound that she swore she had forgotten at some point. It mattered and with every flick of the being’s fingers, it became more obvious why it did. 

“Ah, so your name is Romualda. That explains why they call you Rom.”

The Kin felt cold all of a sudden, stirred within the deepest of her being. The humanoid was right… Yes, her name was Romualda. Long ago… Romualda Kwiatkowska… That was her name before it all started. Before… 

Before what?

Her mind went blank again and no matter how much she struggled, nothing else surfaced. Yet as she tried to remember, she could feel her mind shift once more. As the woman continued weaving, things changed inside her head. Tiny fragments, so tiny they were practically dust, seemed to converge and form. Vague shapes at first, but quickly changing into something else.

“You’ve not had an easy life, have you?”

Instantly, her head started thrumming again and she found herself nodding, as much as her clumsy body could. Yes, that was true as well. She started out her life as the lowest of the low and she had experienced much hardships before she was ever a woman. 

She recalled a hovel in the furthest, poorest corner near Kalisz. Six siblings, of which she was the oldest daughter. Her father, a coal miner who risked life and health for a meager pay. Her mother, who tried to grow some produce with limited success, when she wasn’t washing, cooking or working as a scullery maid in the nearby town. Much of her youth was spent raising her younger siblings and there were times she recalled resenting the fact she had to sacrifice her own childhood for theirs.

Another thing she remembered was hunger. Many nights when there was little to no food on the table. She remembered a few leaves of limply cooked vegetables, as well as her two youngest siblings, twins, crying at night because the hunger chaffed their stomachs raw. She cried too that night and it was there decided she could no longer go on that way.

Her parents initially forbade her when she suggested raiding the trash in the nearby town. They couldn’t stand the shame of their neighbors and friends possibly seeing their children rifle through rubbish to make ends meet. Still, knowing they would starve if she didn’t do something, she went ahead anyway. That night, when she came home with half a loaf, some mostly edible tomatoes and somewhat stripped pig’s leg, her parents said nothing and from then on, they raised no objection when she went out to scavenge.

It was good enough for her. She cared little for shame or reputation or what the ladies whose leftovers she scraped would say about her after mass. Her priority was for her family not to starve and if that meant sifting through waste, stealing scraps or scavenging berries, mushrooms and dandelions at the edge of the forests or other people’s gardens, she was willing to do it. 

She would have smiled, if her malformed mouth allowed it. Those memories were very bitter and very sweet all at the same time. She could feel something stir in her when the memory became more vivid and it felt so strange to simply experience it that it overwhelmed her. 

“That’s why you went to a place called Yharnam. To help out your family.”

Yharnam…

As the being’s hands weaved and spun, new images called for her attention. Of a small town, which already had a strange air to it. She remembered feeling excited upon seeing it, but above all, she felt nervous though she couldn’t understand why. 

She came to Yharnam when the city was still young and she was barely a woman. Initially, she’d had no aspirations to do something grand. She had merely been sent here by her impoverished family to seek employment as a maid or nanny among the city’s most affluent. After all, what other kind of station could a young woman of no education expect? As long as there was coin to send to the family.

She had attained that intended position easily enough. After all, she might be illiterate, but she was compliant, hardworking and easy on the eyes, a winning combination for many a employer. What more, she was exceptionally bright, with a great capacity for learning, and it was that trait that took her places. 

Soon, it became clear she was good for more than wiping dusk off bookcases and just polishing the silverware. Teaching herself how to read and write and with a good mind for money, she would make herself invaluable to anyone she worked for. So much so that eventually, she was offered to work at the newly established college of Byrgenwerth.

Byrgenwerth…

“You worked for a man named Willem. A teacher. He was quite fond of you.”

Willem… Master Willem. Provost Willem. She remembered him. How could she not?

Her employer, an eccentric but kindly elderly professor named Willem, was obsessed with knowledge and discovery, sharing this enthusiasm with anyone who wanted to listen. Many of his new students would come to his quarters and talk well into the wee hours of the morning. Initially, she was just there serving them coffee and tea, but after a while, she started to mingle in the discussions as well. In such a manner that it couldn’t help but impress all in the room.

In fact, so impressed were her employer and his compatriots that they took it upon themselves to educate her. Willem taught her all about science, chemistry and biology and encourage her to mingle with his students in the college, even attend lectures. Their studies together had them grow close and as the old professor had no other living relatives, he soon started to regard her as a daughter of sorts. So much so that he suggested she should give up her job as a maid and study at Byrgenwerth on his dime instead, to make far more of her life than scrubbing floors.

Romualda had been speechless when he offered, but quick enough to accept once she shook off her daze. She had promised him then and there that he would not be disappointed in giving her this chance and that she would make him proud. That she would make this young college well-established and the pride of Yharnam.

“He _was_ proud of you. So were your parents. And you gathered some close friends as well.”

After an eternity, she could feel her heart bleed. A heart she still had, apparently. She recalled them now, all of them. All the people with whom explored the idea of a world beyond her own.

She remembered Laurence and his meticulous research, focusing on medicine. Gehrman, a toymaker with an interest in the supernatural. Lady Maria of Cainhurst, a noble with a mind as sharp as a blade. Yurie, who had aspirations of publishing her research and spreading knowledge. Mad genius Micolash, whose line of thoughts could never truly be explained. 

How she missed them. What was the last time she had seen them? Spent time with them? She wasn’t certain, nor was she as to why.

Her many eyes turned back to the golden creature, still working with nimble fingers. She could feel those same fingers working in her head and as she grew more coherent, she started to wonder. Was the weaving this woman did actually shaping her memories? 

“But then… It went wrong. It all went horribly awry. When you found the tombs, the blood… And then…her. Kos…or some say Kosm…”

Then and there, Rom’s deformed body started trembling uncontrollably. Kos. That name was familiar to her too. With every new line the being weaved, she started to understand why. Her name was synonymous with loss. A portent of doom and horror.

She was there when the tombs underneath the city were discovered and had been one of the primary scholars to chronicle all their finds and detail the lives of the forgotten Ptumerians. She wrote entire volumes about their discoveries and especially about the uncoagulable blood that seemed to have healing properties. Yet what had always fascinated her most was the beings whom the Ptumerians had worshipped and lay at the root of their civilization.

Very early on, she decided she wanted to meet these extraordinary creatures. To commune with them and share their knowledge. If there were beings, or Great Ones, in this world that could give rise to such a powerful civilization, centuries before modern times, she felt there was no harm in establishing contact with them.

As such, she spent most of her time studying old Ptumerian texts, determined to find some way to contact them. It wasn’t easy and it required many a dangerous venture back into the tombs, facing dreadful foes that defied imagination. Yet in the end, it was all worth it, when she finally found out about a being named Mother Kos.

Kos, or Kosm in some of the texts she found, seemed to be sympathetic in nature and was regularly hailed as one of the Great Ones who had shaped civilization. These tablets gave her hope. If any supernatural being would be willing to listen to her, grant her knowledge, it would be her.

She also had an idea of how to do it. While Laurence and many other students focused on the strange blood, Master Willem always talked about acquiring eyes on the brain. To turn inward to access the cosmos all around them. That meant closing herself off, to all the petty and earthy things of this world, and instead focus on the guidance of a being who had long surpassed such an inferior form of existence. She had promised to make him proud once and she felt this was the best chance to prove his theory.

It took her a good few weeks to prepare everything for the ritual. Micolash had offered to help her and together, they prepared all the necessities for calling upon the ancient being. It didn’t matter to her how gruesome some of these things were. Who cared if one had to sacrifice a mummified bastard child of Loran or consume an umbilical cord if the result was something grand? Once she was certain everything was in order, she had gone into a silent room and asked her fellow student to keep watch, ready to meet a being so far beyond her. 

What more, she succeeded. Within moments of her séance, Kos indeed came to her. A being beyond description, with the face of a human but a body fish nor whale, she had only been able to watch as it seemingly moved through unknown seas, enraptured and disgusted all at once. 

There were so many things she wanted to ask the being. About the Ptumerians. The cosmos. Life itself. So many things she thought she could learn. All of which she didn’t. Not when Kos turned her attention to her.

She had been frozen when the Great One did, words fading away before she was even aware of it. The being had simply stared at her with inhuman eyes and without so much as moving her lips, she had spoken. She could hear the words inside her mind, in a language too eldritch for her human ears to comprehend. Yet she somehow did and what she said was nothing like what she had hoped for.

Kos told her that she was dying. That while her kind could live for eons, so long that human existence was less than a speck in the universe to them, but were still mortal. Which was just as well, she insisted. For what humanity would do to her was something none of her kind would be able to forgive.

They would take her, she told Rom. Her fresh corpse, washed up from the sea. They would violate it in unimaginable ways, dissect it, take her blood and use it to birth a child she would never know. They would then take this child and use it for heinous experiments until it died as well. 

Not even the people in the hamlet where she washed up would be spared. Her death would bring them prosperity, but when Byrgenwerth would come, they would perish. They would round of the villagers and kill those who resisted. They would open up the skulls of others for their heinous studies and then spread the madness they’d caused them to many more subjects within the college, abducted from their homes in the dead of night.

Yet the Great Ones would not simply sit by in the face of this suffering, she warned. They would curse them. All of them. The scholars of Byrgenwerth, their children and their children’s children and all those who followed in their footsteps. Their blessings would turn to curses and they would reap the wrath of those they tried to subjugate without understanding. 

Images flashed before her eyes as a stream of curses left the Great One’s mouth. The growth of Yharnam. The rise of a church. People losing their minds. Sanctioned slaughtering by people in hunting garbs. A city district burning. And everywhere she looked, humans turning into beasts, laughing and howling at the same time as madness overtook them and their body became twisted into something too awful to behold. 

These images kept passing her by, with such intensity and frequency that her mind could not take them. She cried out, formulating a disjointed plea of mercy, begging for Kos to stop. Yet the visions kept coming, brutal and overwhelming, until, in the end, her mind could take no more.

She now recalled that Micolash pulled her from her trance. How horrified he had looked. He had tried to snap her out of it, beseeched her to say something, to let him know she was alright. And that she had wanted to tell him but couldn’t, dumbstruck by the horror, her mind passing orders but her body refusing to listen. 

He had brought her to the medical ward afterwards and visited her every day. He’d brought her food and drink, fed it to her himself when she didn’t take it. He and Willem had every doctor in town look after her, but none could find the cause nor the cure of her catatonia. What more, none of them could even remotely do anything to combat the visions she was now experiencing constantly. 

She saw them every second of her day. Visions of Great Ones, of their presence in this world. Of their deeds, small but heinous, and how their mere touch could drive people to do horrid things. They made her numb, overwhelmed her and soon, the weight of seeing the cosmos stretch out before her was breaking her.

She was still conscious when the deformations started to manifest. Even though she couldn’t take, she had wept and shrieked inwardly as the many eyes started to manifest on her face. When her skin turned to scales. When many legs started to protrude from her torso. She had been terrified and disgusted, never more ashamed and scared as these changes violated her body. As her friends and mentor could do nothing but watch her, in a mix of both fascination and sadness.

Every day, she wasted away a little more. The last remnants of self-awareness slowly slipped away as the visions from beyond replaced them. She started to forget the names and faces of the people who visited daily, no longer cared as they poked needles in her or studied strange powers manifest from her like watching a lion in a menagerie. 

All she started to see was the machinations of the Great Ones, the part she was going to play and all she felt a single-minded need to keep their influence at bay the best she could. She was no longer even able to mind or care when she was left at that lake, nothing more now than a mindless barrier. That instinctual behavior took up all of her, every little part, until, at last, her mind was so gone that the fear, terror and pain of her transformation faded too and the woman named Rom was no more.

A wordless scream left Rom’s mouth as the memory played out, as vividly as the day it actually happened. She jerked, struggled as panic took over every inch of her being. She couldn’t take this. Not again. Not when she just remembered everything…

It was only then that she realized that she could actually move. In fact, she could move quite easily. Her body was light and moved with great speed and grace. That in itself was strange enough, were it not for the fact that she suddenly noticed hands. Hands that seemed to respond to commands issued by her own mind.

She gasped, eyes wide and head spinning. Without thinking, she moved the limbs to her face and was surprised to find smooth skin there. A forehead. Cheeks. Ears. A nose. A mouth. Only two eyes. A mess of curly brown hair, hanging over her shoulders disheveled. 

She stood there, frozen for a moment, until a soft chuckle reached her ears. She jumped and turned in its direction. The golden creature was still there, regarding her with what seemed like amusement, pride and sympathy all in one. 

“It’s all clear to you now, isn’t it? Your past, who you are. You’re no longer vacuous.”

Rom didn’t respond, even though her head told her that it was the truth and nothing else. Still, any sense of happiness eluded her, as she saw where they were. The room was familiar now, yet no longer sunny and alluring like she last remembered it. It was the room in Byrgenwerth where she communed with Kos and it now seemed tainted by her bad memories of the experience.

She slumped down on the nearest chair, hesitantly and shivering. “I’m…back at the College?”

The humanoid, a woman she now realized, shook her head. “No. We’re inside your own mind. This room is shaped by your own thoughts and memories. Your body is somewhere else.”

The answer came so readily that it took her off guard. She stared at the being, desperately digging through her restored memories to see if she could recall her. She could not, no matter how hard she tried.

“Who are you?”

The woman smiled. “I am Oghma. Wife of Xarxes, made of History itself. It is I who created everscriven tomes, who knows all yesterdays and tomorrows. I am a being made of memories and understand them in a way few can. Yours were fascinating, I must say.”

It was there that Rom realized the woman was now longer weaving. She simply sat, hands in her lap, watching her. Everything about her posture betrayed an unusual calmness. As if this was just an everyday occurrence to her. It made the human woman wonder.

“So, you have restored my memories and mind?”

Oghma nodded. “Indeed I have. It wasn’t always easy though. I have never seen a mind in so in tatters as yours. It was as if there was only dust in there, everything shattered by the experiences you went through.”

A bitter chuckle left Rom’s throat. “You could say that, yes…”

She quickly fell silent again. All of this was still far too bizarre for her to take in. She let her thoughts wander for a moment, only for them to come back to the obvious. If this was not real and her body was elsewhere, then what was going on with her in the real world?

“So…if this all takes place in head, where is my real body? And does it still look like a pill bug with a thousand-eyed piece of pumice for a head?”

Immediately, she was met with an almost infectious laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. That isn’t the case. Your body may not be in any place you know, but it is quite fine, I assure you. No doubt someone is watching it very closely.”

That casual remark had her frown. “Someone?”

She got a smile in response. “Someone you can trust. Don’t fret.”

Rom decided to just take that information for what it was. Her mind carefully tried to process everything that was being told to her. By the Great Ones, it was strange enough being able to think again at all… Yet she did and it led her to the question she now asked herself most of all.

“Why did you do this?”

The golden woman sat back, calmly looking her over. “Because I wanted to. Because I felt sorry for your plight.”

The human female frowned. “How would you know about my plight?”

“The man who found me told me. How he managed to actually see me, I do not know. Perhaps it was his sheer desire to save you that achieved the impossible. Either way, he begged me to save you.”

Almost immediately, Rom fell quiet, a sense of shock coming over her. She looked at Oghma, sure she’d catch her in a lie of some sort. After all, who would want to rescue her from her plight as Kin? To almost all in Yharnam, being a mindless husk was a small price to pay if one could commune with a Great One… So who on earth had been determined enough to actually try and undo it?

“Who is this man?”

To that, she only got another mysterious smile. “I think you might know. But it may be best for you to leave this place and go back to the real world. He will be there. I am certain you’ll have a lot to discuss.”

With those words, she rose and walked towards her. Rom shrank back as she approached and leaned over her. She stilled, however, as the being gave her a respectful, affectionate peck on the forehead. The gesture was innocent and sweet and it took her off-guard. The woman smiled once more. 

“I don’t think we’ll ever see each other again, but I hope that what I did can help you find happiness again. Goodbye, Rom. Have a pleasant life.” 

Suddenly, the room started to become dark and the moment the human blinked, the golden woman was gone. The area itself started to slowly fade, every item in the room gradually disappearing into the dark. Until, at last, she herself started to go with it.

“…there? …Hey… up… Wake up… Please open your eyes…”

The sound of disjointed words eventually brought her out of the dark. She could feel hands on her, shaking her lightly, seemingly urging her out of a stupor she couldn’t remember falling into. There was the promise of light, the warmth of the sun, lingered just behind her eyelids and she cracked them open, desperate to see what was behind it. 

The first thing she saw were the vague outlines of a face. A human being was hunched over her, speaking to her in worried tones. Why, she wondered? Was she hurt somehow?

It was then that the person noticed she had opened her eyes. Almost immediately, she could see his expression, for she assumed it was a man, change. A smile formed onto his face and he suddenly grew excited.

“Rom! Oh, thank Oghma, you’re awake! You made it! She managed! She did it after all!”

He was practically skipping around now and it was there he suddenly let out a laugh. Instantly, Rom’s mind stood still. She knew that laugh, with the strange unhinged quality to it. How could she not? 

“Micolash?”

The sound of his name had the man still again. He rushed back to her side, instantly checking her over. She tried to speak, ask him what he was doing, but he stopped her.

“Shh… It’s alright. Just stay calm. You went through a lot. F-forgive me for that. I’m just very excited to see you again. Well, in good health and with your wits about you, that is.”

She could only nod at that. After all, there was no real way to describe how good it was having your mind back again. She tried to sit up and look around, only to be shocked by what she saw.

Her body was dressed in simple, roughly spun clothes and she seemed to be lying on an altar of sorts, surrounded by several stones. All of it felt rather unsettling and she wondered just why she was here. Yet there was one thing that truly scared her beyond words.

The sight of her own arachnid body, mangled beyond repair, naught but a slowly crumbling husk. 

She practically shot up, turning pale in shock. “W-what happened? Where am I?”

“There were rumors of weird occurrence near Falkreath, so I went to investigate. The Vinlands living in that house over there allowed me free range to do my research. I found your body here in the lake. That and…someone else.”

Rom frowned. “Who?”

“A strange, otherworldly woman. Someone who looked like an Elf, but wasn’t. She said her name was Oghma. That she was a Goddess of some kind and she had pulled you into this reality to study after she found you on the edges of nothingness. I told her who you were in life and then… Well, I begged her to save you instead.”

He was rattling off the words practically and Rom found herself putting her hands around his arms in an effort to make him stop. He did and the two of them stared at each other for a brief moment. Meanwhile, her brain ran a mile per hour and a million questions flashed her by.

Why would Micolash want to undo her status as ascended Kin? That was what the two of them had aspired to be back in the day. What they wanted to achieve, despite all the risks, and he had been more dismissive of them than she was. What on earth ahd made him change his mind? 

“You were the one that wanted to save me? … Why?”

He looked at her and it was for the very first time that she noticed that the mad glint in his eye was notably absent. Instead, there was a sense of tiredness in it, a sense of perpetual caution. He no longer looked like the mad scientist she once know. More like a man who lived through a nightmare and saw it steal a fraction of his soul. 

“Because I think we made a grave mistake at Byrgenwerth. You weren’t there to see but terrible things happened in Yharnam, Rom. Unspeakable things, in many I was complicit… This plane…it looks kindly upon me even though I came here through poor judgment. So I am atoning. I no longer crave eyes. Now…I just wanted someone I cared about back…”

There was no trace of humor in his voice and it scared her more than any of the rummaging around that Oghma had done in her mind. It made her wonder and at the same time afraid to consider it. Just what had happened in Yharnam that had scared him so much? And what did he mean by this “plane”? From the looks of it, it seemed rather normal to her.

“I still don’t understand most of what you’re saying.”

He took a deep breath, managing one of his overdrawn smiles. “You will. Don’t worry, you will soon. There’s a town nearby. Let’s go there. Perhaps we can get you some clothes other than the rags I had to put you in. We have a lot to discuss, Rom. Both about Yharnam and this place. I’d rather do that near a warm fire and with a cold drink in my hand.”

Having said this, he took her hand and started to pull her away. Away from the old, abandoned altar and away from the dead spidery husk that seemed to crumble even further. 

Rom didn’t stop him. She still had too many questions about what was actually going on and what they had just lived through. The sooner Micolash could answer her questions, the better. Besides, a drink sounded good, as did some actual clothes. After an eternity of being a deformed empty shell resting on a cold, eldritch lake, that suited her just fine.


	3. Under The Red Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurence finds forgiveness.

We were born by the blood. Made men by the blood. Undone by the blood. 

_Fear the old blood._

That was the adage Master Willem told him to inscribe upon his heart. To never forget as he chose to leave Byrgenwerth to found the Healing Church. He had promised he wouldn’t as he walked away, ready to spread his knowledge to the world beyond and change it forever.

But he had forgotten.

That was what he realized now. After Yharnam burned and its citizens were lost to fire and beasthood. After the blood he so venerated twisted his body and mind, leaving him a slobbering, deformed heap of madness. He had not feared the old blood as his old mentor told him he should and he died screaming as a result, put down by his own church as the frenzied animal he now was.

Yet his suffering didn’t end there. His spirit lingered, forever trapped in the Hunter’s Nightmare. Here, he paid for the sins he committed since Byrgenwerth, literally burning alive without relief. So excruciating was the pain that soon, all reason left him and all that remained was an inexplicable desire to find his skull, to find some remnant of an old life he now barely remembered.

When he finally did, it was already too late. A Hunter found him even there, in this cesspool of his own making. He slayed him, after a long and brutal fight, and he died again, screaming this time in a voice that was more animal than man at this point.

Then, after that… Nothing.

Laurence didn’t remember anything but simply spiraling into oblivion. Falling. Endlessly. Falling forever into a pit of darkness. Losing all sense of orientation as gravity continued to pull him down into nothingness.

However, at some point, he no longer fell. He found himself on a solid surface, though he could not remember actually landing on something. The pit had somehow turned into a tunnel and at the end of it, there was something that captivating him beyond words.

A moon. A red moon.

Even in the vicar’s animalistic mind, its meaning was loud and clear. A blood moon. A sign of the Great Ones drawing near. 

He scrambled up, feeling the smallest inkling of hope. Even in his bestial mind, their great power was undeniable. If they were here, even in this wasteland, then there was hope.

Perhaps, he could beg them for forgiveness. Even now, after all that had been inflicted upon Kos and her wizened child. He had suffered enough in the Hunter’s Nightmare and so had the rest of Yharnam. If they were indeed sympathetic in nature and powerful enough to enact this curse, then maybe proper atonement could convince them to lift it once more.

He tried to get up and stumble towards. The first movement resulted in him kissing the ground immediately, his limbs too weak to support his frame. He waited for a while, frustrated with his inability to move, only to try it again. This time, his arms and legs cooperated somewhat and he found himself able to make a few small steps.

Heartened by this, he pressed on. He started moving again, a few small steps at the time. When the limpness returned, he stopped and calmly waited it out. He sucked in a few deep breaths, then commenced his journey to reach the moon.

It was then he started to notice something. The light of the blood moon no longer limited itself to the end of the tunnel. It started to shine brightly, slowly starting to illuminate the endless corridor in a deep crimson light.

Was it a sign, Laurence wondered. Was the moon drawing near once more? Were the Great Ones listening after all?

He tried to take another step in response, cursing how weak he still felt. When his legs refused to cooperate, he instead decided to crawl. Clinging onto the ground by his long, claw-like nails he inched forward, bit by agonizing bit, a prayer on his lips that sounded more like a howl.

In the meantime, the red light started to creep further into tunnel. The moon was starting to light up every inch of it now, revealing the exact distance between him and the exit. It seemed longer than ever now, but not knowing what else to do, he kept dragging himself forward.

He could already feel himself becoming tired. His beastlike form, mangled and unnatural, was hindering more than helping him. How could it do anything else, really? He was not meant to have this. A curse was not meant to bring joy to those who suffered it…

After stumbling again, he lay down for a while. Panting loudly, he looked at the end of the tunnel. He must have only moved a few inches at most…

Was this his punishment, perhaps? The next stage of suffering, one that came after the more outward horrors of the Hunter’s Nightmare? It wouldn’t surprise him.

He deserved it. 

It was his idea to use the blood as a panacea. To inject humans with it, without assuming it would have any consequences in the long run. All of them at Byrgenwerth were responsible for the defilement of Kos’s corpse, but he was the one that spread the blood. The vessels, which the Great Ones had used for their vengeance.

Right that very moment, he started to have doubts. Would they be willing to forgive him? Even the most sympathetic being ran out of sympathy at some point. What if this was indeed one of their machinations? What if he was simply doomed to roam this dark corridor forever?

He could feel himself become nauseous at the thought. No… He wouldn’t be able to bear it if that was the case. Eternal torture… It sounded like the realm of that cruel god his parents used to worship… If that was indeed his share, then he wasn’t certain if he could even find the will to go on.

So he lay there, for what seemed like hours, simply watching that scarlet moon at the end of the tunnel. It no longer seemed to draw closer now, instead sitting there unchanging. It almost seemed to taunt him, he realized. Taunt him for his inability to cope with a torture that seemed entirely psychological.

Maybe he should give up. Accept that he was indeed beyond redemption. Just lie here, in relative peace, and acknowledge the fact that he simply got here by his own mistakes.

Yet then, what choice did he really have?

If he just lay here, what would change? Would he just remain here forever? Just lying here in a corridor, staring at a celestial body? It wasn’t really torture now that he thought about it. It was simply a state of stagnancy. Not moving forward due to fear and doubt.

_“Evolution without courage will be the ruin of our race.”_

If his animalistic mouth allowed it, he would have grinned. Funny, how the words of Master Willem came to mind right now. The mentor whom he had so blatantly ignored, yet whose warning had proven terrifyingly true in the end.

It was only now that he truly knew what it meant. He’d not been courageous when he chose to utilize the blood. If anything, he had been reckless, impatient. He’d called on powers he didn’t fully understand, without the sense to evaluate the possible consequences. 

Still, he realized, there was truth to the old man’s words. It called for action. For moving forward, instead of becoming stagnant. To never settle and explore that grand unknown.

He tried to smile, but only managed in showing his teeth. Willem wouldn’t have wanted him to simply lie here. To stay, moving neither forward or backward, unchanging. He would have told him that it was the sign of a tired mind. That he thought better of one of his finest protégé. 

That imaginary berating, by a man who was no doubt deceased by now, made him think. As bitter as their split was, his mentor wouldn’t have wanted to see him like this. He wouldn’t want to see him get up and reach the end of the tunnel. To see it through, for better or worse.

He would have wanted him to fight while he still could. 

That realization, however flimsy it was, was all it took. Gathering whatever bit of strength remained, Laurence got on all fours again. He looked ahead, to the blood moon that shone ever brightly. He had to reach it or die trying.

Taking a deep breath, he took a step. Wobbly and clumsily, but a step nonetheless. Then another. And yet another one after that. Inch by inch, he moved forward, determined in spite of his twisted body.

Slowly, he crept closer to the moonlight. It really did seem to closer now and he could feel the cool light hit his malformed face. It surely would have brought relief weren’t he actually burning.

He jerked himself forward once more, clawed hand outstretched. He dragged his entire weight across the ground by the tips of his claws. Over and over, covering only a little ground at the time, until he could at least feel the moonlight upon his hands.

He lay down again, trying to catch his breath. Resting his head against the ground, he drank in the feeling of the beautiful red light. It felt cool and soothing, even through the flames that consumed him. Purifying almost, like the water of a secluded mountain spring, snuffing out the fire…

The fire…

It was there, gathering his strength for the next few steps, that he noticed it. His hands were no longer on fire. That which was touched by the red moonlight was no longer burning, the skin pulsing and itching as it seemed to pull itself back together. 

He was stunned. Was the light indeed…healing him? Curing him of his pain? Were the Great Ones indeed merciful enough to let him come before them and profess his most genuine regret?

His heart started to beat faster. If that was indeed the case, then he should tarry no longer. There was still a chance for him. Redemption, even after all of this. He wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

Telling himself it was now or never, he hurling himself forward. He rolled and stumbled onward until he was bathed in the moonlight. There he stayed for a brief moment and he was instantly met with the sound of fading fire. 

Soon, the flames were quenched and Laurence found himself drawing in a sharp breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a sense of relief. The fact that he still looked like a monster didn’t matter to him. Without the pain, his mangled animalistic body already felt a lot better to be in.

So he walked. On all fours still, but it was only a small matter. Now he could actually walk and the soothing red light seemed to strengthen him. He moved further into it, reveling in its cleansing intensity, being filled with an invigorating sensation he had not felt in all his years in Yharnam.

It took him perhaps an eternity before he noticed something else. Trailing behind him were thick clumps of fur. They seemed to fall off his body, bit by bit. Soon, entire parts of his body had become exposed and when he curiously and worryingly reached up to the bald patches, he froze over when he suddenly realized he felt skin.

Human skin.

A shocked gasp, still beastly in sound, echoed through the corridor. No, could it be? Could it indeed be? He would cry if he could, but his form wouldn’t allow him and it would have been a waste anyway. All he could do now was keep going, which he did, feeling the blood moon guide his transformation every step of the way.

The fur went first. Then his antlers. Then the claws and sharp teeth. All of it was washed away, evaporating in the light of the moon. Every little bit of sin washed away, until there was nothing left but a man on hands and feet, naked as the day he was born. 

It was only then he got up, pushing off with human hands to stand on human legs. Awkwardly at first, with the coordination of a newborn child, but soon finding his balance. Once he did, he could only think of one thing. He ran.

He ran, as fast as he could, and suddenly, the end of the tunnel drew near. He pushed himself through, barely acknowledging the dark meadow he had landed on. His attention was on the moon. He limped over until he was directly under it and there, he fell onto his knees, speaking with a voice that finally sounded like his own. 

“Forgive me. Please forgive me. Great Ones, forgive me for my sins…” 

Yet the blood moon remained silent and unforgiving and no Great Ones manifested. Instead, it stayed up in the heavens, radiating its beautiful crimson light. So brightly and intensely that it engulfed him and he lost all consciousness. 

“Hello? Hello? Are you well?”

Laurence groaned, more annoyed by the sound than anything. He felt hands touch him on all sides and feebly raised his own to shoo them away. They stopped in response, but he could still feel the presence of whomever they belonged to.

“Are you alright?”

Realizing the person would not leave, he cracked an eye open and immediately, he turned pale. Leaning over him were strange, beastlike people. They reminded him of cats, with slit-like pupils and fur all over, as well as long tails trailing behind them. The very sight of them caused fear to well up in him. Was he back in Yharnam and was the beastly curse still in effect?

He held up his hands as to defend himself, naked and afraid, weakly emitting a warning. “No! No! Stay away from me! Beasts! Foul beasts! Innocent humans consumed by the Old Blood!”

Instantly, the beings started frowning, almost insulted, and looked at each other. “Do you think he’s been hitting the skooma?”

One of them, who seemed to be the leader, shrugged. “He might be. Still, this one thinks we should at least leave him some clothes. To leave him like this is most shameful.”

The other one nodded and walked away, only to then return and hold out a bundle to him. Despite his increasing panic, Laurence could still find enough reason in him to calm down temporarily and cautiously took it. He then realized they were indeed clothes.

That little bit of knowledge somehow caused him to settle down a little. These supposed beasts had just spoken and offered him clothing. Not something any of the mad creatures in Yharnam would do…

He looked them over. They watched him intently, but didn’t seem interested in hurting him. If anything, there was something human and intelligent about their demeanor, a far cry from the animalistic monsters back home. What’s more, he now realized, there had never been any beasts at home that resembled cats.

He took a deep breath, then nodded at them. “T-thank you. F-forgive me for my outburst. I have had a trying day.”

His rather eloquent response seemed to put them off-guard and he quickly took the opportunity to slip into the clothes. They were simple and didn’t fit properly, but he was happy that he was now less vulnerable. He felt even more relieved when one of them smiled at him, a strange purring chuckle coming out of his throat. 

“No harm done. It must have been trying indeed if you ended up naked by the side of the road.”

The friendly response made Laurence a little more at ease, but the strange beast’s words gave him pause. He quickly looked around, eyes widening when he saw he was indeed at the side of a road. All around him were grassy plains, vast mountains and pinewood forest and above him was a blue sky with a bright run and the vague outlines of both a large red and smaller white moon…

How had he ended up here? After all, the faint red moon in the sky might the same as he saw at the end of the tunnel. If so, just were on earth had it led him? Some strange alternate plane of existence where beasts had taken over and were now the dominant species? 

“Are you...beasts?”

The cat-like man twitched its ears, giving him a strange look. “We are beastfolk, if that is what you mean. Khajiit, to be precise. We’re merchants, on our way to Riften.”

He furrowed his brow, the name saying nothing to him. “And you always looked the way you did?”

To this, the whole group stared at him, then laughed. “Of course. Khajiit have had gorgeous fur, tails and claws since the beginning of time. Just like Argonians have scales, Elves have pointy ears and Human men have beards.”

Their laughter inspired his own, albeit half-heartedly, but the one thing that caught his attention was the mention of humans. So there were actual humans in this world, as these…Khajiit mentioned their existence rather casually. That made him a little more at ease, but also brought about a new question. How to find them?

Then he realized one of them had seemingly mentioned a town. Riften, he believed. He’d never heard of it, but these beings clearly knew where it was. Which gave him an idea. He smiled at the Khajiit, apologetically. 

“This might be really bold, especially after how you found me, but could I travel with you to this…Riften? I will be no bother, I promise. I am simply unfamiliar in this land.”

He saw how the group briefly exchanged glances, before turning back to him. “This one already had that impression. Very well, you can travel with us. As long as you do nothing crazy.”

That was an easy enough promise to make for the vicar. He nodded eagerly to the agreement and within a few moments, he was comfortably sitting in the back of their cart, amidst countless supplies, riding down the road to Riften. Grateful for the ride, he made himself as small as possible, not imposing as the Khajiit spoke to each other in presumably their native language. He was simply glad to be human again and to be heading back to civilization, even if it was with creatures as unusual as these and he had no idea where he was. 

He wasn’t going to ask either. After all, they already seemed to find him odd and he himself couldn’t entirely explain just how he ended up at the side of the road. No doubt they would consider him insane if he told anyone.

“Well, would you look at that? Could it be another transcendent?”

An amused, purring voice made him look up from his thoughts. His eyes darted around the cart. Suddenly, he noticed what looked like a large, fluffy cat. He blinked. Had it just spoken to him or was he losing his mind all over again?

The cat stared at him, opening her mouth. “Oh no, don’t mind me. I was not talking to you at all. The moon sugar is simply so fascinating…” 

Laurence didn’t respond immediately, jaw hanging open. So the cat could speak, just like the more humanoid ones. His day was getting ever stranger indeed.

“Are you a Khajiit too?”

The feline chuckled. “Oh no, silly. I’m a cat. A talking cat, certainly, but just a cat. I am Shalquoir. And you are?”

In his utter surprise and confusion, the vicar answered without hesitation. “Laurence.”

The cat lazily stretched, the rocking of the cart not bothering her the slightest. “Pleased to meet you, Laurence. So, where did you come from?”

Feeling uncomfortable, the human male looked away. “What do you mean?”

Shalquoir wasn’t perturbed. “I mean, from which land did you drop in here? Boletaria? Lordran? Drangleic? Lothric? Or the newest addition full of humans turning into disheveled werewolves?”

That last description, uttered so casually, caused Laurence to stare at her in shock. “You mean Yharnam?”

She yawned. “That’s the name. So the last one then, I presume.”

He fell quiet for a moment, his mind having gone blank, before shaking himself out of it. “You know about Yharnam?”

“Yes. A town that angered the Gods and turned its people into animals. Two traveling scholars bought some things off us and told us about it. I think they were headed for Solitude to meet with Solaire Chevalier. Charming man, that one. If you, pardon the expression, happened to drop into Skyrim and are not familiar, he is a good place to turn to.” 

Laurence simply nodded in response to this information, not knowing what else to do. The way she talked, it sounded like Yharnam was nowhere near where he was now. In fact, the cat made it sound as if this place, Skyrim, and his hometown were _worlds_ apart. He swallowed. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“So, who called you here?”

This next question only had him more confused and she elaborated. “People like us, we are called here by Gods. They bring us here when they consider us worthy of a new, better existence. So, who brought you here?”

By now, the vicar was starting to become exceedingly ill at ease. So far, he had managed to tell the truth by omission, keeping his strange tale under wraps. Even now, he was loathe to tell it, certain that anyone who’d hear it would hold him for a madman.

Yet, the instinctual part of him pointed that so far, Shalquoir seemed oddly accepting of his ramblings. She even knew what had happened in Yharnam. As such, he figured, if anyone would accept an absurd explanation, it would most definitely be her.

“No one. It might sound ridiculous, but I went through a tunnel of sorts in the form of a beast. When I passed through it, I was human again and all I could see the entire time was a red moon, like the one in the sky here.”

“Masser.”

“What?”

Shalquoir scratched herself. “Masser. The large red moon. Some also call it Jode. The Khajiit worship it as the Lunar Lattice, together with the smaller moon Secunda. It determines their forms upon birth. Some say it is the broken body of Lorkhan, the Trickster God, split in two and come alive. Its duality reminds the man-creations of his struggle and how they must always strive to move forward.”

As she spoke, languidly and clearly, Laurence could only listen enraptured. He didn’t yet understand why, but as Shalquoir talked to him, he could feel things started to click into place. In spite of his confusion, his uncertainty and knowing there was still so much he didn’t understand, there was an inkling of clarity, one he had craved for a long time.

Everything had been real. All of it. His death in the Hunter’s Nightmare. The long tunnel. The moonlight that cleansed him of his beastly state. Masser had seen fit to save him, to heal him. It had looked upon him in his miserable form and found it possible to feel pity. It had lured him here, through the tunnel, to this brand new world and for no other reason than wishing to do what the Great Ones hadn’t. Sheer sympathy for a twisted, flawed life.

The vicar barely even noticed the tear that was running down his cheek. Here, in this simple old cart on the way to an unknown city, he had a revelation. One that could not be bested by those provided by a million umbilical cords. 

It was not yet too late, even for him. 

The rest of the road to Riften was a pleasant one. He spent most of his time talking to Shalquoir, trying to learn as much as he could about this new place he had ended up in. She proved herself to be a great source of knowledge, having apparently come here in the same way as he did from a place named Drangleic. She told him of many others who had come here as well and informed him about Skyrim as well as she could.

The Khajiit proved equally interesting conversational partners. It seemed Shalquoir’s opinion had softened them towards him and they no longer regarded him as either crazy or a drug addict. They regaled him with many interesting tales about their homeland of Elseweyr, their great fortunes thanks to Shalquoir and explained a great many things about their culture and religion. He listened enraptured and time seemed to fly as he shared food and tales with his temporary companions.

Half a day later, they finally arrived at the gates of Riften. The entire party seemed happy to arrive, even when some of the humans, the first Laurence had seen here, eyed them with suspicious looks. The cat explained that this was common for them and that Khajiit caravans had a bad reputation that forced them to make camp and ply their trade outside the city walls. 

The vicar had to admit it pained him to hear that. So far, his travel companions had seemed a little unusual, but nonetheless kind and compassionate. Compassionate enough, at least, to spy a naked, unconscious man on the road and make sure he was alright and with some clothes on his back. That already made them kinder than most of the people he’d met back home in Yharnam.

It was with a rather heavy heart that he said goodbye to them, knowing he had to get into the city to try and determine what to do next. They bid him farewell with equal warmth, telling him that if he ever needed help or wares for a fair price, he knew where to look. He told him he definitely would and then left, quietly hoping that, as they said it, “his road would lead him to warm sands”. 

Something somehow told him that it would.

Even now, he carried those words closely to his heart. He’d been here in Riften for well over half a year now and he was slowly growing accustomed to his new life here. A life far away from the machinations of his hometown or the horrors of the Hunter’s Nightmare. 

The city reminded him of Yharnam. Dirty, strange, lively. A place that was constantly moving, either by the hands of its colorful citizens or outer forces. A feature that seemed to turn off most people in Skyrim, but something that made him feel rather well at home.

Of course, he didn’t live within the city gates. While he was inside them most every day, he’s made his home outside. His house was instead a small temple, one he’d built with his own money through a small trade in produce and breeding livestock. One that was open to all kinds of travelers, including those who could not enter city walls, where they were free to ask for assistance or direct a prayer to its gods: Jode and Jone. Masser and Secunda.

Once Laurence had somewhat settled in this strange land, he knew he wanted to dedicate a temple to the deity who had saved him. He wanted to give back to the people who helped him get this far, mortal and god alike. And there were many to give thanks to, besides the band of Khajiit who brought him here and now regularly came to him to worship.

By now, he had already met a few others of his kind. By now, he’d met two Companions, an impossibly tall man and blond woman with their young child in tow, who apparently came from a place called Lordran. A thief within the city claimed he was from the same place. He’d also been in contact with Solaire, the man in Solitude who recorded these events and he had improved his network of acquaintances in ways he didn’t dare dream about. 

The former vicar will never forget that letter. The one he kept in his drawer even now. The one that asked if he was perhaps familiar with two people named Micolash Dvorak and Romualda Kwiatkowska. 

He hadn’t been able to reply fast enough that he indeed was and that he desperately wanted to know where they were. He’d asked this benevolent stranger in Solitude how they were, how they’d come to him and that, if he was indeed still in contact with them, if he would be so kind to inform them of his existence. Then he’d sent that reply and had desperately hoped that it would not be in vain.

Today, it was proven that it wasn’t.

Laurence found himself nailed to the ground as two very familiar people walked into his temple. Cautious and curious at the same time, seemingly not certain whether they made the right decision coming here. Two people whom he knew very well, yet looked nothing like how he remembered them.

Rom was no longer a deformed monster and instead looked like a more mature version of the girl he’d once known. Micolash had lost the expression of borderline madness and made a far more serious impression. They looked like they had once carried the weight of the world on their shoulders and had only very recently been able to lift it.

Still, there were smiles when their eyes met with his. Genuine, warm smiles that were not the result of any lingering lunacy. They walked up to him, slowly losing the awkwardness in their step. He did the same and soon, they were facing each other, full of emotion and lacking in words.

What was there to say anyway? How could one possibly sum up everything they had gone through in words? They could write a thousand books about them and would still come up short and the same would be true for describing the feeling of seeing each other again like this, gone through hell, scarred but surviving.

Still, he spoke first. Three simple words. The first off the top of his head. 

“You look different…”

A stupid observation, Laurence knew, but he didn’t care. Neither did they. Rom was the first to reach out and embrace him. Micolash soon followed. The former vicar didn’t hesitate for a moment in returning the gesture, swallowing the tears that threatened to burst their way out and soil their clothes. 

They stood there together, in utter silence and for a moment, the former vicar felt everything was alright with the world. That his suffering was worth it. That he would have crawled through a thousand tunnels on all fours if that meant seeing those he cared for once more. And here they were, in the flesh, called by the Gods and swept to a town called Riften, in the strange but beautiful land of Skyrim.


	4. The Moon's Guiding Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia seeks salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while, I wondered if the woman you meet in the patient room of the Hunter's Nightmare was in fact Amelia, having again taken a human form. However, it seems unlikely that Amelia was Hunter of some kind as this human is, the models don't match and there is no reason she shouldn't appear there as a beast, if she should appear at all. So in the end, I went with her appearing in her beast form instead.

“Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears. Seek the old blood, but beware the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young. The foul beasts will dangle nectar and lure the meek into the depths. Remain wary of the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young. Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented. Seek the old blood. Let us pray, let us wish to partake in communion. Let us partake in communion and feast upon the old blood."

That prayer, begging for guidance, was the only thing still in Amelia’s mind, as she ran through unknown forests. By now, she didn’t know just how long she had been doing so. It was too dark to see. It was dark wherever she went, except for a white moon above, which she pursued with bestial instinct.

She remembered nothing. Nothing of what once was, nothing about what truly drove her. All she recalled was pure agony, the immense pain of a body gruesomely distorted. The, there had only been madness and an innate desire to fight or flee as a man with a blade besieged her.

Then, there was darkness and now, there was that moon.

She chased it fervently, howling at it from the deepest of her being. For some reason, she felt that it held an answer of some kind. That she had to follow it, no matter where it led, no matter where these dark forests would end. 

That moon was there when she woke up, in a dark infinite void, the only sign of life. The only distraction from the endless nothing. She had felt she would be forever trapped if she didn’t reach it and even though the blackness and eventually stopped and gave way to woods, she never once stopped. Besides, she had no choice.

She was being hunted as well.

Amelia had spotted them several hours ago. She had been resting in a clearing, drinking from a stream and feasting on the carcass of an already dead deer. She had been tired, in dire need of sustenance, temporarily spent from her endeavor of running after the moon.

She had nearly fallen asleep when she suddenly heard shouting. Her ears had perked up and she had raised her head from the grass. It was then she saw them. Humans, stepping into the clearing. Humans with silver swords and torches.

They were Hunters. She had been certain of it. Immediately, a primal fear had come over her and she did what any animal far outnumbered by a frightening force did.

She ran.

Instantly, the humans started screaming. Suddenly, arrows started to swish by her, some of them piercing her flesh. She screamed out, only to quickly ignore the pain and start running even faster.

It hadn’t been too hard to outrun the humans. After all, her beastlike form allowed for great speed and agility in spite of her enormous size. Soon, she was rushing through the trees, quick and nimble, desperate to get to safety.

Yet the Hunters were a persistent lot. They followed, with weapons in hand, determined to capture her. Determined, for some reason, to kill her.

Soon, Amelia had been running for her life. Weaving through the trees, staying in the shadows, she was trying her best to evade them. All she felt was immense panic, a need to run from the creatures who threatened to tear her skin with iron, whose arrows could outmatch her in speed. 

Why were these people hunting her? Why did they want to hurt her? She had done them no wrong. She was simply in these woods, just following the moon. Just doing what her nature told her, simply wanting to be left alone.

The vicar wanted to tell them that. She wanted desperately to turn around and reason with them. Tell them she wasn’t a threat, that she meant no harm. Yet she could no longer produce anything but howls and shrieks and their intensity grew with each fearful moment the chase continued.

Meanwhile, she also kept an eye on the heavens above. It was still nighttime. The smaller white moon was still there. Somewhere inside her twisted mind, she felt it had to have meaning of some sort. That if only she came close enough, she would figure it all out. That was, if she even lived long enough.

Her tongue hang out of her mouth as she panted. Tired… She was becoming so tired again… Just how much longer could she run? Just how much longer could she stay ahead of her pursuers?

She was desperate and for a while, that desperation gave her wings. Yet in the end, her large and clumsy body proved inadept at outrunning them. Soon, there was a sword in her side, arrows in her back, an axe at her heels. Blood was staining her fur in thick rivulets, sapping her strength. A sharp blade sliced at the muscles in her back legs and out of nowhere, she found she couldn’t run anymore.

Within the blink of an eye, they had surrounded her on all sides. Closing her in on all sides with fire. She whimpered at the sight of the hungry flames and as she became faced with the notion that she was trapped, she chose to defend herself.

Taking aim at the nearest human, she swiped at him with her claws. She caught him square in the chest and sent him flying. This sudden development was enough to catch the others off guard and she moved forward, clamping her giant rows of teeth down on another in an effort to draw blood.

For the new few minutes, she fought with all her might. She bit, slashed and stomped her way through the waves of attackers, determined to wound them in every way she could. It didn’t matter how. All that matters was that they would simply leave her be.

Yet the Hunters refused to give up. After each new attack on her part, with every wound she inflicted, they retaliated. They pushed on, with bitter, almost insane determination, avenging every blow and rallying around in an effort to bring her down.

She felt a dozen blades sink into her sides from all sides. A hideous burn searing her face as someone swung a torch at it. More arrows were show in her direction, small needles piercing all her vital veins. Their shouts grew more inflamed and she quickly understood that she couldn’t possibly win this.

Before she could do anything, she sunk to the ground. The loss of blood had severely weakened her and she found her strength slipping. She again tried to lash out at her assailants, but was barely able to do so much as lift her arms. A fact they were quick to catch onto.

She screamed as they came bearing down on her, hacking and slashing at her with wild abandon. Again, she wanted to implore them to stop. To cease hurting her. To let her be. She tried to beg, but all that came out were more screeches and with every sound she made, she inflamed them even more.

As immense pain wracked her body with every hit of a weapon, it finally got through to Amelia that she couldn’t escape. That these foes were too strong and too clever for her to overcome. They wanted her gone and they were going to see to it that it was successful. 

Another stab in the next floored her and as she lay there trembling while they continued attacking her, a terrifying truth came over her. She was going to die here. All she could hope for was that it would be quick.

Then, just as they were about to strike the final blow, there were howls. Animalistic howls with a human edge, rising from the nearby forests. The Hunters froze in their tracks, turning their attention to the surrounding area. All of them grabbed their weapons tightly, shouting orders laced with uncertainty, standing back to back as they faced an unknown threat.

Suddenly, three large, gray figures leaped from the darkness. They descended upon the humans with brute force, a whirlwind of teeth and claws tearing at armor and flesh. Soon, the air was thick with fear and the first traces of blood. 

The Hunters fought back, with the same unbridled ferocity they had employed in hunting her down. A few of them landed hits on their attackers, shouting curses and boasts with every cut made. Every once in a while, they managed to push forward when steel was swifter than teeth and they would try to gang up on one of the beings to take them down.

They, however, were never successful for long. The figures were well-organized and refused to be separated. The largest of them, easily twice the size of the others, was relentless in protecting the other two. He would trample their assailants, impale them on his claws and crush them between their jaws, causing cries of fear to echo throughout the forest.

They weren’t alone either. Mere moments later, other figures appeared to fight beside them. Two men with large swords, hacking and slashing their way through the men with the silver swords, as well as what looked like a giant wolf. Their ambush came completely unexpected and it wasn’t long before the battleground was turning into a carnage.

By now, it was clear to the Hunters that this was a fight they couldn’t win. Those who weren’t dead were started to retreat, fleeing back into the forest while shouting curses. The strangers seemed uncaring of this, simply responding with their own triumphant chants as the humans raised their swords in victory.

In the moments after this, silence returned to the clearing and it allowed Amelia a good look at them. The humans and wolf were interesting enough on her own, but her attention was mostly on the three gray figures. They were human nor wolf. They were beasts, such as herself. 

Yet just as she thought this, their shape started changing. A strange, dark force took over their bodies, changing it in strange ways. Their limbs distorted, their fur disappeared. Within a matter of seconds, the strange beasts were gone and all that was left were three naked humans. 

All of them got up from their position on all fours, grinning as they walked up to the wolf, which carried a strange harness on its back. They took several bundles from it, armor and weapons, before slipping into them, talking excitedly as a redhaired woman surveyed the scene.

“The Silver Hand is growing in numbers again. The fools. They never learn.”

The other woman, with blond hair in a long braid, scoffed. “I wouldn’t mind so much if they would limit themselves to werewolves that actually cause trouble. But these kind of fanatics really make life for the Companions unnecessarily hard.”

The man, much taller than the both of them, shrugged as he walked up to his wolf and petted it. “Perhaps, but they are a worthy foe at least, especially for the likes of Sif and I. It was a good skirmish, one worth telling a tale about.”

One of the other man agreed with a snicker. “Indeed, a fine tale to regale the whelps with as we drink our mead.”

The others noisily agreed, ignoring Amelia as they happily continued to talk but eventually, the blond woman spoke again. “Well, I definitely had fun, but I think it is time we return to Jorrvaskr once more. I long for rest and I think old Tilma will be glad for me to take little Marceline off her hands again.”

The tallest man of the group grinned. “A good thing too. I’d never forgive the woman if she’d intend to keep our little girl. So let us gather whatever trophies we want and head home. I long for the peace of the mead hall.”

The other two members of the party nodded in ascend, but as they started to loot the fallen bodies, Amelia could see how another member walked up to her. He had long, dark hair and seemed similar to one of the others, as if they were blood-related. He approached with captivated interest, something which caused her to grow anxious again. She lifted her head to snarl at him and when she did, his eyes went wide.

“Um, everyone? I’d hate to spoil your fun, but…what is that?”

His shocked call drew the attention of the others and only now did they fully take her presence into account. They gathered around her, staring at her in utter shock and confusion as they took in her form, discussing among themselves. Something about that made her feel incredibly humiliated, even if she couldn’t understand why.

“By the Nine, what is that indeed?”

“It reminds me of a wolf and a deer, but it isn’t either.”

“A Daedric creature from the Hunting Grounds of Oblivion perhaps? I couldn’t think of a single being on Nirn that would look this way…”

“Was that what those members of the Silver Hand were hunting? That would certainly explain why we managed to take them by surprise.”

“It looks gravely wounded. They really did a number on it. Not sure if it will last the night.”

Hardly had that last thought been spoken or the redhaired woman stepped back, a determined tone to her voice. “If that’s so, then there is only one thing to do…”

She reached for her belt and drew a dagger, causing the long-haired man to raise his eyebrows. “Are you really going to…”

She gave him a casual look. “It is mortally wounded. To leave it like this and let it bleed to death is far crueler. Besides, this is a rare creature and a mercy kill is still a kill. I’d say to the victor, the spoils.”

Having made her point, she then walked up to Amelia’s head. The moment the beastly vicar saw the blade, she knew what the woman intended to do. A soft whine of terror left her lips, especially when she realized she was now too feeble to even remotely put up a fight.

This woman was going to kill her. Swiftly and precisely, surely, but kill her all the same. Slaughter her like the animal she was. Without second thought or personal attachment, in this terrifying forest she just couldn’t escape.

All she could feel as she looked at that weapon was horror. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to meet her end scared and alone, killed by strangers. Not knowing where she was or how, her last moments a pure nightmare.

The dagger shone in the light of the moon above. Somewhere, she wryly realized that she never managed to reach it. Never actually found out the answer. She had chased it and never caught up, remaining in the dark. Now, she would remain that way forever.

The woman took her head and raised the knife, seemingly planning her impending strike with utmost precision. Every second she lingered increased her fear and helplessness, made death grow more inevitable. So much so that even her animalistic mind started to fray at the edges.

It was there, feeling her last seconds ticking away, that Amelia could no longer take it. That somewhere in her damaged psyche regressed to perhaps the one human thing she could still remember. The one action that gave her some sense of comfort, even in her horrid state.

She clasped her hands and waited for the end.

“Aela, wait!”

The voice of the blond woman stayed the other’s hand. She looked up annoyed, angry that she was interrupted, but the blond female couldn’t care less. She ran up, practically wresting the dagger from her hands, pointing at Amelia as she continued to speak. 

“Look at it. It’s…praying.”

Instantly, a profound silence came over the group. Amelia felt them stare at her. It didn’t matter to her. All she knew was that she was going to die here and that this was the only thing that kept her from being paralyzed with dread.

The man with long hair gasped, staring at her. “By the Gods… You think…it’s human?”

The near identical male stepped closer stepped closer. “If it is, then what could have possibly turned it into such an atrocity? A curse by the Hunter Prince, perhaps? It looks like something Hircine created in his most wretched nightmares!”

The tallest man of the group shook his head. “How it came to be is not important. If it’s indeed human, we should try to save it somehow. We are Companions. Not monsters who mindlessly slay those capable of redemption.”

The two other men and the blond woman muttered in agreement. Yet their words sounded like utter gibberish to Amelia. She was a trembling heap now, lowering her head as her fear was increased by every passing moment.

The redhaired woman scoffed. “Do you think we can? Look at it. If it could have reverted back to human form, it likely would have by now. And I doubt a witch’s head is going to solve it since this is nothing a deal with the Glenmoril Wyrd can do to a person…”

The others stared at her, their expression indicating that she was right. Then, the blond woman perked up.

“The Scroll of the Wolf Ender…”

“The scrolls Artorias and I stole from the Glenmoril Witches in Solstheim. They draw the beast spirit from one by reciting the words on the scrolls and activating its magic. Perhaps that might work.”

There was another notable quiet. One in which everyone was clearly weighing the woman’s words and their merit. Suddenly, the longhaired man smiled.

“I might be an ice-brain, but that sounds smart, Ciaran. I think we should try it. Good thing you told me to keep them on me.”

He took something from his pouch, preparing to hand it to her, only for her to refuse with a smile. “No Farkas, you or Vilkas do the honors. I have no desire of accidentally giving up my gift.”

He paused for a moment, then chuckled. “Oh, right. Brother, will you?”

The one with the shorter hair nodded and took the scroll from him. “Certainly. Keep your hands on your sword though, brother. I need you to have my back in case things go awry.”

His brother nodded and he drew his weapon, followed by the rest of the company. Knowing they would protect him, the man stepped up to Amelia. She merely watched him, still petrified with fear. So much so that when he reached out to touch her, she could only scream, in a half-hearted effort to make him stay away.

The man backed off ever so slightly, but didn’t go away. He said something in a soft and gentle tone, but she snarled at him. He was a human with a weapon. She couldn’t possibly trust any kindness on their part.

The human male stood frozen for a while, seemingly thinking. Suddenly, he smiled. He clasped his hands, looking at her questioningly.

“Pray?”

That single word had her perk up, like a dog responding to his master’s name. Yes, she knew praying. Even though she was no more than an animal, she still knew how to pray, even if she could no longer speak the words. The thought of doing so calmed her somewhat. She clasped her hands same as his, waiting for what he’d do next.

He spoke, slowly and deliberately. “Pray with me. Even if you cannot speak, listen and take these words to heart as I speak them to you.”

Most of the words he said, she didn’t remotely understand. It didn’t matter. He wanted her to pray, the only human thing in her beastlike mind that she could still remember. All she could hope for was that he provided her with words, where the only sounds she could make were screams. 

The man then continued to speak and she strained to understand. “Hircine, Huntsman of the Princes, Father of Manbeasts. I call to you on behalf of this wretched soul. Whatever wrongs it has done, it has suffered enough. So let this magic apply to it as well and cleanse it from its curse. Therefore, I read these words. “Dreaded beast, begone”!”

Amelia didn’t understand what he said, but she could somehow sense the reverence in them. There was something happening on this spot. Something grand and beyond the powers of her primal understanding. So she strained to her it, desperately wanting to comprehend. Until, suddenly, she could make out three words, clear as day as they etched themselves into her mind.

“Dreaded beast, begone!”

Suddenly, a wave of pain washed over her. It wrecked every nerve in her body, hammering into her skull. It felt like her limbs were twisted in all directions, her innards were ripped apart. Her shrieks of anguish echoes across the clearing, clearly setting the humans on edge. It didn’t even register to her as the agony finally reached a crescendo and suddenly, she could feel her heart stop and her body drop to the ground.

The next thing she saw when opening her eyes was a complete darkness. She found herself in some cramped space, barely able to move. She felt submerged in a foul-smelling liquid of some sort, but there was only one thing more overwhelming than the odor. The lack of oxygen.

Beset by panic, she started to struggle but was unable to do anything as her confines refused to give even an inch. She found herself pushing against some strange stretchy and fleshy surface, screaming for someone to let her out. Yet nothing budged and soon, she could feel how she was starting to choke and her vision turned to black.

Then, just as she could feel the last bit of air leave her lungs, there was a sound. The sound of metal slicing through flesh. Suddenly, there was a force, grabbing her by her arms and legs and violently jerking her forward. Amelia felt how she was pulled through an opening of sorts and suddenly, there was silvery moonlight, as well as air.

On instinct, she breathed in, gasping and coughing as she did. Her lungs burned and blurry eyes turned upwards in search of the light. She shivered madly, the stench of blood and viscera clinging to her and as she desperately tried to determine where she was, she was met with something that made her eyes bulge.

Beside her lay a giant beast. Its horrified form, riddled with arrow and deep wounds, lay lifeless, bleeding and guts spilling out of a large cut in its belly. She followed the trail to where she lay and it was there she realized another thing.

The vicar trembled when she saw human hands and long blond hair smeared with blood falling down her shoulders. Quickly touching her head revealed a normal face. Again, she looked at the…thing beside her and her next realization made her retch as much as the smell clinging to her.

The beast was her…and she had just been cut out of its belly.

Were she not already lying down, she surely would have fainted. Yet as she was about to collapse, she felt a pair of hand taking hold of her arms, trying to keep her upright. She looked up, finding several people standing over her and a redhaired woman speaking to her.

“Hey, stay with us. It’s alright. We got you out of there. Take slow breaths. Breathe in, breath out. That’s it. Artorias, Farkas, try find some water to clean her up and give her something to cover herself.”

Two of the men gave heed to that call and moved away to gather the necessary items. Meanwhile, she just sat there, hugging her legs and trying her best to keep her modesty. She cautiously glanced at the person beside her, a blond woman who tried to give her a reassuring smile. 

“Hello. I’m Ciaran. Don’t be scared. We’ll help you. Don’t worry, the worst is over now.”

Amelia wanted to believe that. She wanted so desperately to. Yet right now, her newly found human perception was overwhelmed by its ability to think clearly again. She felt cold, scared and confused all at once and had no idea just what exactly had occurred, except that they had done something to pull her, the human her, out of the body of a beast.

One of the men crouched down beside her. Feeling more vulnerable than ever, she tried to avoid his gaze, hoping he’d go away. He didn’t and when he spoke, she suddenly realized she recognized the voice. This was the man who had prayed with her. Who made her wake up inside that…thing…

“What happened to you? We thought that beast was a transformed human, but then it dropped dead when we read a scroll to it and we saw you squirming around in its stomach. Was it some kind of foul curse? Or did this beast simply consume you?”

His question was asked with sincere curiosity, but it was the one thing that made her tear at the seams. If only because, for all of his ignorance, he was closer to the truth than anyone else. She lowered her head and broke down sobbing. 

“Yes… Yes, it was a curse… A terrible curse… And I was consumed.”

She wanted to say more, but any coherent words quickly got lost in the tears. The people sitting with her mercifully refrained from asking anything else. Instead, they allowed her to weep, comforting her to the best of their abilities as they waited for their comrades to return.

Thankfully, they did soon enough. The vicar didn’t put up a fight as Ciaran and the redhaired woman set about quickly rinsing the bodily fluids off her and she gratefully took the simple clothes Artorias handed her. Where he’d found them, she didn’t know and she certainly wasn’t going to ask as she quickly slipped into them. 

When she had donned them, she tried to get up, but her legs immediately buckled. She certainly would have fallen had one of them not come to her rescue once more. Farkas caught her and easily lifted her off the ground. Realizing she was still far too weak on her own, she accepted him carrying her and from her new position, she took the opportunity to look over the company that had rescued her.

They were warriors, to be certain. All of them wore varying degrees of armor and had weapons of this person. Some of them, the ones called Artorias, Ciaran and redhaired female, seemed to be beasts of some sort or at least had the ability to turn into them at will. They were currently standing around her former body and she saw how all of them took out a series of knives as they approached it.

The man who had prayed with her frowned at the display. “What are you doing?”

The red-haired woman gave him an annoyed look. “Skinning it, of course. It still counts as a kill and a memorable one at that. Surely its skin and head would make a fine trophy to grace Jorrvaskr with.”

Farkas chuckled. “Indeed it would. Smart, Aela.”

The man with the shorter brown hair rolled his eyes. “Fine. Do what you will. Farkas and I will head back to Whiterun with this woman. We’ll bring her to the temple of Kynareth to make sure she’s well. We will see you back at Jorrvaskr. Come, brother.”

He then motioned his sibling to follow him and soon, Amelia found herself carried off, through thick woods until finally reaching a plain. The revelation that there was something beyond them nearly made her cry from joy, would it not be that her tears had run out from fatigue. Too tired to do anything but simply hold on to Farkas, she listened to his conversation with his brother as they headed to an unknown destination.

“This was crazy, Vilkas.”

The other man, Vilkas, chuckled. “Tell me about it. I had expected many things to go hunting, but never something like this. Even now, Skyrim still surprises me.”

“And we got a nice trophy out of it too. That head will look fantastic in the mead hall!”

Vilkas cast him a small glare for that, seemingly out of consideration for her, but the vicar was unaffected. Words couldn’t describe how fortunate she felt to have her human body back, her _mind_ back. The beast she’d turned into had been a prison she was now free of. If they wanted to mount parts of it on a wall, she genuinely couldn’t care less.

Farkas, however, seemed oblivious to his brother’s harsh looks and prattled on. “It’s probably because both Masser and Secunda are waxing. Strange things always happen at full moon. And some people say little moon Secunda is the sorrow of the Divine of Mercy… So maybe that led her to us?”

To that, his sibling gave an amused laugh. “You really are an ice-brain, brother.”

They changed the subject as they continued to converse, but the vicar found that she couldn’t let go of Farkas’s words. He mentioned a small moon. And the one thing that had guided her through the darkness, into these woods, was the shining light of a small, white moon…

Secunda, he called it, and he said it was associated with divinity and mercy somehow. Mercy… Had it not indeed been mercy that led her to these people who had freed her from her torturous state?

A few stray tears ran down her cheeks and she instinctively reached up to wipe them. It made sense to her somehow, even if she couldn’t possibly grasp the reason. That this strange, unnatural moon had a hand in curing her. Perhaps what Farkas said wasn’t entirely correct, but it was the closest thing to an explanation she had right now and she was at peace with that.

Taking a deep, contented breath, she looked up at the sky. Both moons shone above, illuminating their way forward. Where to, she didn’t know and frankly, it didn’t matter. Right now, she was simply happy to be here, human and sane. She smiled and the words passing her lips were a prayer barely above a whisper.

“Thank you… Thank you, Secunda…for sending me these kind people to cleanse me. Thank you…for saving me.”


	5. Metaphysical Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Gascoigne hunts one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drisis is one of the most obscure Goddesses in The Elder Scrolls lore. She is only ever mentioned in the in-series book _Withershins_ and that book doesn't even describe her appearance or sphere of influence. Since she is called upon as part of curing a person of compulsive behavior and mentioned besides the Daedric Prince Boethiah and the Divine Kynareth, beings associated with conflict and healing respectively, I figured her domain should be somewhere close to it. The title of the chapter is a reference to the incantation in which she is invoked in the aforementioned book.  
>  Either way, please note that I am employing a reasonable amount of artistic liberty with this one. The same goes for the deities in the next few chapters, who are all some of the lesser known deities of The Elder Scrolls world.

“What’s that smell? The sweet blood… Oh, it sings to me… It’s enough to make a man sick…”

His last words. That final sickness. The sweet blood. 

He could feel it even now. Tumbling and falling through an infinite chasm, surrounded with nothing but memories. Memories that shifted and blurred, unrecognizable in a sheer haze of bloodlust and bestial rage.

Father Gascoigne was no more. It was not even a man that died at the Tomb of Oedon that faithful night in Yharnam. That man and all of his history had gone when the Old Blood took over. All that was left now was a monster. A mindless beast, roaming a Nightmare, until that too shattered.

Now, he just fell. Over and over, endlessly, into a bottomless pit. Lost to the Nightmare, lost to time, lost to everyone and everything. Forever plunging in nothing, with no other emotion than the perpetual fright that only an animal could feel.

There was no hunt anymore. No prey. No shelter to flee the destruction. Only madness, for the rest of eternity as he continued to fall in silence.

Until a certain moment.

Out of nowhere, a sound was heard, reverberating through the dark abyss. A tune, hummed by a woman’s voice, soft and soothing. A tune he somehow believed was familiar to him.

Something twisted within the furthest crevices of his mind. It was as if a door opened, revealing something that had been forcefully locked away before. Something important that he had forgotten.

Then, just like that, he was no longer falling. His feet touched ground, so lightly that it seemed like gravity didn’t exist at all. He was in a room now, all dark without a single window. Trapped, it seemed, except for a single heavy door right in front of him. A door to an unknown place and behind it, he once again heard a woman humming that strange melody. 

Even in his primal state, he found it in him to push against it and he was elated when it gave way under his pressure. It creaked open, the sound of it shockingly loud against the black silence. A bright slipped through the crack and within seconds, the room was no longer so dark.

He was practically blinded as he stepped through the door. He put his clawed hands in front of his face to shield his eyes, allowing him to get accustomed. Once he pulled them away, he stilled, surprised by what he saw.

In front of him was a clearing, beautiful and filled with life. Sunlight swept over beautiful plant life and flowers, while birds and butterflies filled the skies. The moment he breathed in, he could tell the air had changed. The air here was clear, pure and brimming with a million enticing smells. It made his heart flutter. 

This place felt so alive…

“So you have not forgotten the song…”

His head twisted in the direction of the voice. His ears flattened against his neck and a snarl passed his lips. There was a human in here with him.

Sitting on a rock at the waterside was a woman. At least, he assumed she was. There was something about her that was not…natural.

There was a strange energy about this woman. Something wild and untamed, constantly shifting and changing. Her appearance, dark-skinned, green-eyed and with sand-colored curly hair, had an unkempt beauty to it, a oneness with the environment around her that made her both fascinating and terrifying to behold. One look in her eyes, calm and shining fiercely, and he found himself scrambling back. 

She was not prey for him to devour. Here, she was the apex predator.

She rose from her seat and stared at him as he retreated. “You are in a worse state than I hoped you’d be. No matter. It’s nothing I can’t fix.”

Then, out of nowhere, he found himself rooted to the ground. Invisible restraints held him in place. Instantly, he started to struggle, growling at the woman as she walked over to him. He tried to bite her as she reached out to him, but she was undeterred by his aggression. Instead, she placed her hands on his head, muttering a strange incantation.

Suddenly, a wave of pain erupted inside his soul. He screamed as it felt his skin was violently ripped apart, his innards twisted and his bones seemed to twist and bend into unnatural shapes. He would have growled at the woman by way of cursing her, but he could taste its own blood as his body was tearing itself apart, consumed by what felt like fire, burning him from the inside out.

He cried out as flames seemed to bore their way out the pores of his skin, melting it along with the fur. He could feel the heat boiling everything away and as the pain reached its peak, something inside him snapped. The bloodlust, which had been eating away at his mind, evaporating and all that stayed behind was clarity, pure like hot iron newly forged. 

Just then, the fire faded and instinctively, he looked down to assess his body for damage. His eyes widened. Despite the intense heat of the flames, there wasn’t a single blemish on his skin. In fact, what he could see of his own body was devoid of any beastly traits. It looked human again, how it was once before being imbibed with the old blood. He _felt_ human…

He stared up at the woman as she stood over him, lost for words. Had she just…cured him? Burned away the beast inside him? How? How could she possibly do that? Just what was she? 

She simply smiled at him. “Do you remember now, do you not? You remember who you are, Gascoigne…”

He nodded breathlessly, feeling very naked and vulnerable all of a sudden. “Who in the bloody hell are you?”

She grinned at him, her smile almost feral. “A Goddess, though not one that you would know or worship. I am Drisis, Goddess of Cleansing and Purification. As I have just done for you.”

Gascoigne looked her over once more, a distrustful growl in his voice. “Why?”

A chuckle was his answer. “Isn’t it obvious? You were cursed, your soul cast to the dark edges between worlds. Broken, abandoned things are those I have a soft spot for. Even if they are no longer among the living.”

He could feel his body grow cold as she spoke those last words. “No longer among the living”… Did…did that actually mean…

Again, he looked around the clearing, taking in the ethereal nature of it all. This didn’t look like any kind of place that could exist anywhere on earth. Nor were the powers of this human anything a cleric of the Healing Church was capable of. What’s more, as human reason had returned to him, he was starting to remember…

He chuckled wryly. “I am dead, am I? The beast took over and a Hunter killed me at the Tomb of Oedon. After that, a Nightmare that lasted a lifetime…”

Drisis didn’t respond, but the sympathetic look on her face said it all. He really was gone and now lingering in the afterlife… As shocking as that revelation was, however, he couldn’t find it in him to despair. Instead, his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Viola… Alicia and Isabelle… Where are they? Where are my wife and daughters? Are they safe, at least?”

Again, there was silence. The Goddess looked at him and he could see her face fall. She swallowed, seemingly uncertain of what to say, her eyes filled with sorrow. He could see himself reflect in them and when he reached out to touch her hand, begging her for an answer, his memory sprung back into action, blurry and marred by the beasthood that had afflicted him.

Amidst the jumbled visions, he saw Viola, wandering around Yharnam looking for him. How close she had been to him when a mob found her and murdered her in a fit of madness and paranoia, too late for him to come to her rescue. Isabelle, violently murdered and devoured by a monstrous swine when told of her mother’s death by a Hunter and told to find shelter at the Chapel. Alicia weeping over her little sister’s death, before flinging herself off a ledge to fall to her death, her ribbon clutched in her hand. All of them, dying gruesomely, all because of him…

Sick to his stomach, he could barely speak. “No… No… Please… By the Great Ones, no… Not them. Not like this…”

Yet the visions didn’t stop and he could feel how his legs gave out and he sunk to his knees. He felt like vomiting but nothing came out and the bile in his throat only made him sicker. Before he could stop himself, he started to weep, howling like the animal that had just been burned out of him. 

They were gone. His wife… His little girls… All lost in one night, fueled by madness and bloodlust. His own madness and bloodlust. All brought on by the wretched, sickening blood. The blood he had once imbibed himself with, in the delusion it would make him strong enough to keep those he loved safe…

He looked up at the goddess. Why? Why had she cleansed him if it only meant remembering that everyone he had lived for was dead and gone? That he was forever separated from them? Was she not a being of good but of careless cruelty same as the ones whose blood he had consumed?

As if she could read his thoughts, she looked down at him and answered, her voice soft and cold. “They are not yet lost, Gascoigne.”

Those words, spoken so soothingly, had his hair stand on edge. “What?”

She stooped down to his level, her voice earnest. “They too came here. To this world. I sensed their tainted spirits, but could not get to them in time. A dangerous being took them. A necromancer, vultures that celebrate rot and decay, who took their souls for his dark experiments. I could not save them, but you can.”

An ice cold hand clamped around Gascoigne’s heart as Drisis spoke. His family was alive, yet in danger once more? So much so that they were beyond the reach of a Goddess? Then what was he supposed to do? He, a simple man who had just lost everything? He didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

“How can I? I couldn’t even save them when I was imbued with the blood of the Gods. How can I save them now?”

Suddenly, he felt a hand against his face. Soft and gentle, encouraging. He glanced up at the Goddess and as he looked back into her green eyes, he saw the thing he needed to see most. Compassion. Empathy. Yet most of all, he saw a determined strength that reminded him much of his younger days as a Hunter. 

“I don’t know, but you have to. You have to find some way. I will bring you back. Back to life, back to where I sense them on Nirn. The rest is up to you.”

He wanted to say something. He wanted to say so much. But before he even could, a strange sensation gave over him. Like snow falling over him, pricking his skin, until finally rendering him numb. He could feel his eyelids become heavy and the last thing he heard was Drisis’s voice, floating through his mind.

“Go to them, Gascoigne. Save them. Hunt one last time. It is not yet too late…”

The cleric gasped for air when he woke from what seemed like the deepest, most fitful slumber he had ever experienced. He jerked up, only for every muscle in his body to feel sore. All around him were large trees and thick vegetation and he could hear the murmurs of water nearby. Large mountain ranges loomed in the distance, but just as he was about to wonder where he was now, a violent rumble shook the earth, followed by the sound of unearthly screams. 

Startled, he looked around to determine its location, only to become aware of the fact he was unclothed. He shivered as a cool breeze assailed him, but just as he got up and tried to look for something to cover him, he noticed large ruin in the water. It seemed like a fortress of some sort, one that had somehow sunk. Yet what currently caught his attention was a strange glimmer in the shallow part of the water. Something that looked like a chest…

Knowing he had absolutely nothing to lose, he rushed over and dived in, not caring how cold it was. Taking a deep breath, he went under and opened the heavy lit, glad to find something in it and bringing the items to the surface. Once at the shore, he realized it was a strange book of sorts, some breeches and, most notably, a steel war axe. Those last two were definitely useful, but just as he strapped on both, he again felt the trembles and heard the screams. Sounds, he now realized, that came from the sunken fortresses beside him.

Suddenly, he heard it again. Those words, spoken by that strange Goddess Drisis. That strange dreamlike experience, which he now feared wasn’t a dream at all. He could feel himself becoming sick. If she had told him the truth, his wife and children were in there…

Then and there, Gascoigne could feel something inside him shift. The sense of panic he felt at his current predicament was overridden and replaced by a kind of primal rage that could rival his time as a beast. He should be cold from the water, from the soaked breeches clinging to his skin. He should be frightened and unsure of himself with how ill-prepared he was and the Gods knew what was hiding in that tower. 

It didn’t matter. Whatever was in there had his family. Whomever hurt them, wherever they were, he could not abode it. He had something to cover up and he had a weapon. It would have to do. He had to go in there and save them. He had to get his family back or die trying.

Tightly clutching the axe, he moved forward, looking for an entrance. Soon, he spied a pier, leading to a hatch on the fallen, partly submerged tower. He didn’t hesitate. Ignoring any cold of fear he might have felt, he wrested it open and jumped in.

The image that greeted him was enough to send a chill down his spine. A skeleton, crucified on a pair of shackles, clearly left as a warning to those who dared to enter. He swallowed, but nonetheless approached it, quickly spotting a knapsack underneath the body. He rifled through it, grinning when he saw it contained a pair of simple boots and some actual clothes among others. Again, he was a little less vulnerable.

In his new attire, he stepped through the falling water and entered a large room of some kind. He tried to ignore the skeletons and dried up smears of blood everywhere, instead noticing a corridor on the far left. Hearing faint voices coming from it, he rushed through, bracing himself for whatever was waiting for him.

He got his answer soon enough. Hardly had he walked into the next room or he found himself confronted with a sinister sight. Several figures in black hoods turned to him, as well as walking skeletons gazing at him with empty eyes. Within seconds, weapons were drawn and Gascoigne found himself blindsided as a flurry of elemental power was sent his way.

He ducked behind a pillar on instinct, but not fast enough to prevent the spell grazing him. He cried out as frostbite seared into his flesh, cursing under his breath. What kind of people were they? Who on earth could put the elements under their commands? Who could actually raise the dead? In that last case, what unspeakable things were they doing to his family?

The clacking of a skeleton approaching cut his thoughts short. The thing came sprinting at him, weapon raised and ready to lob off his head. Unfortunately for it, the cleric was a little quicker. He ducked, the sword sailing over him, then swung his axe right at the skeleton’s chest. 

The force caused the creature to shatter on impact, bones flying everywhere. It didn’t reform afterwards, allowing him to focus his attention on the people in the black hoods. Not moving from his safe position, he allowed them to draw near and just as they were about to come around the pillar, he struck. 

The first blow of his axe struck his assailant right in the throat, ripping it apart before pulling the weapon back. His enemy fell, gasping for air and he spun around to deal with the other one. This strike took the woman’s head clean off and he watched how it spun through the air before hitting the ground with a dull thud. 

This moment of distraction cost him. A third one came rushing into the room and Gascoigne growled in pain as he was hit with a wave of fire. The burns were beyond agonizing, but they only increased his wrath as he practically flung himself at this new enemy. Dodging any further bursts, he tackled the woman to the ground, then repeatedly struck her in the face and chest with his weapon until she stopped moving.

Only when the body lay motionless did the pain of his injuries truly register. He hissed, clutching them and dragging himself to the nearest table to lean on. This arcane elemental power had done a number on him and if this fortress had more of these people wielding it, he wasn’t sure how long he’d last.

Yet, just as he was asking himself this question, his eye fell onto a strange reddish liquid on the table. It was stored in bottles of varying sizes, next to ones with ones with a similar blue fluid in them. The smell of it was strange, but as he stood there looking at them, he couldn’t help but be reminded of blood vials back in Yharnam.

That, along with desperation, had him pick up the nearest bottle, opening it and downing the contents in one go. The taste wasn’t particularly unpleasant, reminding him of the cough medicine he was given as a kid. It wasn’t blood, he now realized; just a potion of some kind. Yet whatever was in it, he could suddenly feel a warm, soothing feeling spread through his body and within moments, the wounds on his body started to close. 

He grinned at this, quickly grabbing the rest of the bottles and storing them on his person. His chances had just improved again. It looked like he was back on the hunt.

With renewed confidence, he proceeded and started to cut himself a bloody path through the fortress. With every new room, more of the people in dark robes approaching him, conjuring skeletons and familiars along the way. He faced them all with sheer disregard for the threat, eager to all introduce them to his axe.

Let them come at them. Let them try to stop him. Let them fling their arcane arts at him and summon long dead bones. He wasn’t leaving until he found his family and he’d slay them all if he had to. He was hunting and he never felt more alive. 

As he stood over yet another fallen foe, withdrawing his axe from a hooded figure’s mangled flesh, his attention was suddenly drawn by the sound of a nearby locked door creaking open. He turned in the direction of the sound, weapon ready as he approached, only to be met with the sound of a high-pitched shriek and what looked like a scalpel clumsily flailed in his direction. He easily avoided it, but just as he contemplated retaliation, his eyes went wide as he looked upon the small figure.

“Alicia…”

The blond girl looked at him upon hearing her name and stared at him as if she had seen a ghost. “D-dad?”

The scalpel fell to the floor and she stood there motionless. She simply glanced at him, cautiously, almost as if she was scared that he was going to disappear again. There was a deathly quiet, then a soft and choked sob before, finally, she burst into tears.

Instantly overtaken by fatherly instinct, he rushed up to her, stooped down and took her in his arms. He allowed her to cry for a while, rubbing her back in an effort to calm her. No words could describe just how it felt to see his little girl again. Alive and well, safe now… 

There was so much he wanted to do and say right now, but he painfully realized that he didn’t have the time. He had found one daughter, but he couldn’t rest easy until he found the other and his wife. He looked her in the eyes as he wiped off her tears.

“It’s alright. I’m here now. I won’t let them hurt you again. Where are Isabelle and your mother?”

She tried to take a deep breath. “Upstairs from the main room, I think… Mum…mum found a way for us to escape our cell, but one of the scary people caught us. She stayed behind. I lost Isa while trying to run. I’m…I’m so sorry…”

A small sigh of relief passed his lips. So they were likely still alive. Leave it to his she-wolf of a wife not to wait for rescue. He would have almost laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire. Thinking quickly on what to do next, he picked his daughter up, opened the large, nearby closet and put her in it. He gripped his daughter’s shoulders, talking to her slowly and deliberately. 

“Alicia, I’m going to get your mother and sister, but it’s too dangerous for you to come along. I want you to stay here in here, out of sight, and not make a sound. Hide and don’t come out until I call for you. Can you do that for me?”

His oldest daughter swallowed a fresh wave of tears, then quickly nodded. He curled up, hugging her legs and it was with a heavy heart that he closed the door, leaving her in the dark. He didn’t like leaving her like this, but taking her with him could be suicide and he had no idea what lay outside the fortress. All he could do was leave her here and find the others as quickly as he could. 

So Gascoigne pushed on, now more determined than ever. Using his strength, wits and a bow and arrows he’d picked up from one of the skeletons, he annihilated any enemy he came across. The bow especially proved invaluable to a particularly strong arcane wielder and after getting rid of her, he was elated to find some simple scaled armor in a nearby chest, as well as a staff that caused the arcane frostbite. After finishing off whatever of the hooded people he could find on the main floor to secure his oldest daughter, he went upstairs, to where she said she had last seen her mother and sister. 

As he cut down two more figures upon entry, he was almost instantly drawn to soft weeping, coming from what seemed like a storage room. He practically burst through the door and it was there he saw the one thing he hoped to see. On the floor, hiding in a heap of hay, was little Isabelle.

The little girl was so scared that she refused to come out until she actually saw his face. Once she did, she clung to him crying. He tried his best to comfort her, but she was shaken beyond words. 

“Wake me up, daddy. T-this bad dream… It won’t end. First, there was the monster pig and now… I want to wake up, daddy. Please!”

“It will all be over soon. Right now, I need to you stay here while I go get your mummy.”

Instantly, she started sobbing louder. “No! Daddy please, don’t leave me here! I’m scared! I…I want to go home!”

Gascoigne swallowed and gathered all his willpower. “Please, sweetheart. It’s too dangerous to take you with me. I need to get mummy. She might be scared and alone too. You will be safe here and I won’t be long. Please, Isa, can you be a big girl for a little longer?”

By now, his youngest daughter’s face was streaked with tears and he could feel her hang on a little harder. Yet after a few tense seconds, she let go, nodding weakly and sniffling. He hugged her one last time, then got up and closed the door behind him, ensuring she’d be hiding from sight. Then he stormed out of the room, desperate to find his wife. 

It didn’t take long for him to find the cells. He carefully checked each and every one of them, hoping desperately to find Viola, but they were all vacant. Still, the one thing he did notice was another hooded figure. He was already dead, sprawled onto the floor with a slashed throat. Something told him that wasn’t a coincidence.

“Stop struggling, you bitch! It will be less painful that way.”

“You have to kill me first, you damned monster!”

Curses flung from the next room had him raise his head and he could feel his heart beat faster. Keeping his axe close, he sprinted over and threw himself through the entrance. He quickly looked around and stood motionless, shocked by what he saw.

In the middle of the room, near an altar, stood a figure in a black cloak, a leader of these people judging by his garb. His face bore several fresh slashes and was contorted in rage, glaring at one of the pillars while hurling arcane arts at it. Behind it was a figure with messy blond hair falling dawn her shoulders, taunting him while clutching a bloody dagger. One didn’t need much imagination to see what was going on and with his anger boiling over, Gascoigne turned to the cloaked figure.

“Keep your bloody paws off my wife!”

Instantly, both people stopped what they were doing. They looked in his direction, trying to determine what was going on. Yet behind the pillar, he could hear a gasp, along with a voice he so longed to hear again. 

“Gascoigne?”

The cleric took a moment to glance his wife’s way, sending her a small, reassuring smile. She simply stared back at him, looking like she wasn’t certain whether to laugh or cry. It didn’t matter for now. Not while there was still a threat in the room that deserved his attention.

The man, golden-skinned with odd narrow features, turned to him with a look of anger and surprised, only to chuckle. “Ah, would you look at that? Another soul from a strange world, falling right into my lap. My day just got somewhat better.”

Gascoigne bared his teeth in response. “It doesn’t if you don’t let my wife and daughters go. Do so and I might just consider letting you live.”

To this, the man practically howled with laughter. “You fool. Do you truly think you can make demands from me. Do you not know who I am? I am Mannimarco, the Lich, the Worm King, once again reborn through my disciple to seize control over Tamriel! The souls of your wife and children will suit me well in this goal, but with yours, I’m sure to succeed. So kneel and accept your fate, precede your family’s death with your own! It will make things far easier!”

The voice, dripping with arrogance, was all the cleric needed to make a decision. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t care, though I agree with the “worm” part. Come get my soul then, Lich! If I haven’t done you in before that!”

His words, full of mockery and confidence, proved to be the only need provocation. Before he could blink, the cloaked man unleashed a devastating wave of frost. He only barely had time to duck behind one of the pillars, the ice boring into the stone structure mere inches away from him. 

His opponent then muttered a strange incantation and Gascoigne grunted as several of the skeletons in the room sprung to life, picking up arms and descending upon him. He screamed at Viola to watch out, to run, meanwhile desperately lunging at those closest at him with an axe before focusing on the sorcerer. 

His wife, however, was ahead of him. She viciously stabbed the nearest skeleton between the vertebrae, easily prying its head from its shoulders and rendering the spell undone. She then rushed away, using the pillars for cover and then running up to the conjured bones at the back of the room, wielding a bow and arrows. She bashed it with a loose skull lying on the ground, then quickly grabbed its weapons. She then proceeded to shoot at the remaining skeletons from the cover of the altar, before aiming her arrows at the cloaked man. Clumsily, but effective enough as a distraction. 

Meanwhile, Gascoigne charged at him, bringing down his axe with ferocious swings. His enemy did his best to avoid the blows, hurriedly keeping his distance. He would cast spell after spell, healing himself, bombarding him with everything from ice to lightning to fire. When he could, he would summon more skeletons. He did his very best to keep him on the defense, trying his best to tire him out.

After a while, he was indeed starting to pant. His previous fights were taking their toll on him and he could feel every muscle in his body hurt. Moving fast became ever more difficult and in turn, he became a much easier target.

The cleric grit his teeth whenever the spells would leave a mark, pain setting his nerves alight with each hit. He swallowed, biting back the anguish, gripping the axe so hard it hurt. He couldn’t give up. Not if he wanted his family to live.

Gathering his strength, he charged again, a wary cry bursting from his throat. He simply dodged left and right as Mannimarco unleashed devastating attacks in his direction, shattering any skeletons in his way. He raised his axe, ready to strike a fatal blow. 

Yet in that very second he did, the cloaked man struck first. A storm of lightning descended on him, hitting him on all possible side with devastating effect. Searing pain numbed all his senses and he swore he could taste blood as he was violently flung to the ground, his body jerking violently from the agony.

As he lay there, gasping for breath and desperately trying to bring one of those healing potions to his lips, he could feel the cloaked man standing over him. The cleric looked up and the man’s smug face made him want to wring his neck. His devastating glare, however, only made the man laugh.

“It’s not going to help you. You’re only delaying the inevitable. For you and your family.”

He reached out to him, another sinister force at his fingertips. “Now embrace Oblivion.”

Gascoigne tried to inch back as feeling returned to his body, but he couldn’t move nearly fast enough. He could feel the dark energy come closer, pulling at him. Like the beast that once inhabited him returning to devour his soul. It frightened him beyond words and then and there, he froze over with fear, knowing he was going to die here, again, once again having failed those he loved most… 

Then, out of nowhere, Mannimarco cried out. He cursed, furiously, definitely directed at Viola. The sudden change in demeanor startled the cleric, only to soon figure out why as he saw the man bleeding violently. In panic, he started to pull at the arrow that was now firmly lodged in his side, only to give up when it caused even greater pain. Instead, he summoned yet another storm of frostbite and aimed it right at the woman.

He never got the chance.

Using every bit of strength he had left, Gascoigne threw himself at the man, slamming him into the ground. The cloaked bastard squirmed upon impact, struggling to break free, but he wouldn’t let him. Instead, he delivered a few punches to his face, hard enough to draw blood. 

Every time the man even remotely threatened to employ arcane arts, the cleric would continue to beat him. In the end, his face was more red then golden and after about the tenth time Gascoigne’s fist met his face, he was left a disorientated mess of bruises and broken teeth. 

Now certain he would no longer move, the cleric reached over to grab his weapon again. He leaned back over him, using a foot to pin him in place, determined to end this one and for all. This fight would soon be over and now, the previous condescending King of Worms realized it too. 

“N-no, not again… Not like this… You bested me, please just…”

By now, the necromancer was on his knees, begging for his life. All he got from Gascoigne was a dismissive growl. It was far too late for mercy now. 

The first hit of the war axe struck him square between the shoulder and neck. It easily cut through flesh and bone. A rattling wheeze left the necromancer’s mouth, blood pouring from his nose and mouth as he tried to formulate another plea. The cleric simply responded by withdrawing the weapon and striking again, this time firmly planting the weapon into his skull.

Instantly, the body twitched violently before falling limp, a last, labored breath coming out the vile creature’s mouth as the life seeped out of him. Gascoigne then proceeded to violently pry the weapon from the body, shaking the remains of gray matter off it. He, however, wasn’t done yet. He wanted to make sure that this wretched thing was not coming back.

Furiously, he went to stand over the fallen body and started to slash as the neck. Bit by bit, the flesh gave way to force and steel. Soon, the head started to separate from the neck, errant blood spurting everywhere. With every cut, he could feel himself grow more furious. This man had tried to violate his family. He was going to make damned sure even his corpse would bear the evidence of what a mistake that was!

He raised his axe again, but just as he was about to swing it again, a pair of hands stopped him. He tried to pull away, to continue his rampage. The hands, however, held firm and it was then a scream finally got through to him.

“Gascoigne! Gascoigne, stop! Stop it, my love! He’s already dead!”

The sound of Viola’s voice brought him back to reason. He froze and looked over his shoulder to see her face, frightened and determined all at once. But most of all, alive. His wife was alive…

His body relaxed, the axe dropping to the floor with a deafening clatter. He reached out, hands touching her face. Even now, he still didn’t believe that she was here. That she was in one piece. That she was breathing and not lay dying and mangled on some rooftop in Yharnam.

“You came for us…”

There was almost an edge of disbelief in her voice. He couldn’t blame her. He shouldn’t have. Not after what he had become… Not after what all of Yharnam had come to. But Yharnam was gone and he was no longer a beast. He was a man again and in this strange new place, he had done what he previously couldn’t.

He smiled. “Of course I did…”

She bit her lip and he could see tears well up in her eyes. For a moment, he feared that she would walk away from him right there. That she wouldn’t forgive him this time. After all, after all that happened, he could no longer blame her.

Just about then, however, that she threw herself into his arms. She held him, sobbing as she did, so hard that he could practically hear his ribcage creak. Still, he didn’t stop her, giving her all the time she needed. She wasn’t the only one in desperate need of holding, after all…

It seemed like an eternity before she relented somewhat and looked up at him. “Our girls… Where are they?”

He chuckled. “They’re safe. I found them and told them to hide. They are as brave as their mother.”

She smiled at that and it took him a while to undo himself of her embrace. It wasn’t that he disliked being like this. It was rather that he and his family were still here, in a monster’s den. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to get them out and take them somewhere safe. 

“We have to leave this place. I’ll get Alicia and Isabelle. Grab whatever valuable things you can find and then we’ll head back to civilization.”

Viola frowned as he stepped away. “Where are we going?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I don’t think I know any more of this place than you do. Somewhere safe, somewhere civilized. Any place that is not this fortress or Yharnam…”

With those words, he rushed away to quickly pick up both his daughters. He praised whatever God was listening when he found them exactly where he left them, scooping them up in his arms and telling them not to look at the carnage he’d caused. He quickly reunited them with their mother and he and Viola then quickly took it upon themselves to look for anything of value.

It seemed luck was with them. It seemed these terrible people had hoarded some useful materials. Around chests and in cupboards, he and his family found all sorts of things. Coins, food and drink, good quality clothes, gems, valuable books, jewelry, weaponry and potions. Enough to help them on their journey, either for themselves or to trade in for money. 

Once they packed everything, Gascoigne quickly led his family out of the fortress, again sure to shield his children’s eyes from the bodies. Everyone let out a small cry of joy as he opened the hatch and they were suddenly surrounded by sunlight and a bright, blue sky. He allowed them that little moment of respite, before imploring them to follow him to a road he spied in the distance. 

Once they reached it, Viola was finally willing to talk. She told him how he and the girls had woken up in the fortress, seemingly as part of some strange, dark ritual. When she found out their intentions to sacrifice them, she had quickly devised a plan for them to escape, by stealing the key to their cell when they were being fed. The plan had been botched, however, and it was there that he had found them.

The cleric listened to his wife’s tale, occasionally smiling. He couldn’t help but be proud of his wife’s resourcefulness, of the way she had fought like a she-wolf to keep their children safe in his absence. Yet most of all, he was grateful. Grateful that he did manage to make a difference this time.

He cherished the feeling of his daughter’s hands holding his own. He looked at them as they walked beside him, almost skipping, with the enviable resilience children were known for. Even now, he still couldn’t believe they were here again. Alive… That he was allowed to hold them once more.

He clenched his jaw. What had he done to actually deserve that? Why had Drisis cared enough about him, a lost and cursed soul, to cleanse him and give him his life back? His family back? He couldn’t think of any reason, except the most unlikely.

Compassion. Simple, pure compassion, for a being so much more inferior.

“Daddy, are we no longer dreaming?”

Isabelle’s voice made him look up and he saw how she looked at him almost frightfully. “I dreamed I died. That you, mummy and big sister died. And then we were here, with the scary people in black robes. They’re gone now. So…have I woken up? Is it over?”

A sliver of nausea ran through Gascoigne’s body and he was beset by relief and sadness at the same time. He thought for a moment on how to answer. On if he should explain this cosmic conundrum beyond their power to a mere child. 

In the end, however, he found he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth. That there was no possible value in her knowing it. They were here now, away from the nightmare the Great Ones had cast on them. There was no harm in a little white lie to protect an innocent young mind. 

He squeezed her hand and smiled. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It was only a bad dream. You’re awake. It is finally over…”

Despite his best efforts, he found himself tearing up. Even now, he found it hard to believe himself. Yes, it was over. Finally over. The shadow of Yharnam no longer lingered over his family and for the first time, there was no darkness. Just a wide, open road in the sunlight, amidst an unspoiled landscape, and they were walking it together.

Something told him that if they followed it, they would find a town soon. Perhaps they could find shelter there, a place to sleep and someone to trade with. Perhaps he could even find some temporary work and make some plans from there. What kind of plans, he didn’t know yet, but it also mattered very little.

For the first time in years, he was free. He and his family, freed of their demons. All of because of a greater being who did care. Who had the heart those Great Ones lacked. She had given them all this new start, free of corruption. He would be a fool if he didn’t take it, for the sake of Viola, his daughters and his own.


	6. Hope of Lyg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yurie goes on a strange journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judging by her name and what I found about it online, I assume Yurie is Japanese. Hence why I factored this into her story. This is not my best chapter in my opinion, in part because there's so little information on this particular character. So sorry for that.

“What is this place?”

Yurie, the last scholar to leave Byrgenwerth wasn’t certain how she got here. As she looked over a foreign landscape, one devoid of any recognizable features, one thing became exceedingly clear to her. Wherever she was, she was no longer in Yharnam. 

The last thing she remembered was lingering at the old college, guarding her old mentor Willem and seeing to his needs on behalf of the Choir. Many of its members found it a thankless task, looking after a catatonic old man who regularly soiled himself and could barely eat. They’d much rather spent their time conducting new research and attempting novel ritual than looking after what they considered a treasured but useless relic of times past.

Yurie, however, had never felt that way. Unlike most of her brethren, she still remembered Willem as he used to be. A man of wisdom and limitless imagination, whose brilliance lay at the basis of the study of the Ptumerian Tombs, the Great Ones and the Old Blood. He was all she had ever aspired to be, yet felt she never managed to live up to. Everything the Healing Church was, they owed to this man and as such, she was more than happy to look after him until his last day.

Then, there had been someone. A young Hunter, who clearly went off the beaten path prescribed for the Hunt, meddling in things that were not his business. An intruder and one she had to keep him from her mentor at all costs. 

So she fought him. With a threaded cane in hand and arcane knowledge learned between these very walls, she went at him. She struck at him at every opportunity, carving wounds onto his flesh and assaulting him with celestial power in an effort to make him surrender. Frankly, some part of her had hoped that her efforts would scare him off. That he would dutifully return to the Hunt and forget about her master.

Yet the Hunter didn’t leave. Young and stubborn as he was, he persisted and fought back, determined to get past her to reach her master. She was skilled and aggressive, but he had determination and luck on his side. One wrong move and his saw blade was in her neck. Soon, her vision went black and she found herself pulling away from her body, as the Hunter closed her eyes and stepped away, to continue on to her master…

After that, there were only memories. Of a life back in Katorimura, well off but stifling. Of being in the shadows, with two younger brothers favored over her and never considered worth noticing. An arranged engagement and a flight into the night. A journey across an unruly sea that made her queasy just thinking about it. A long trek through a foreign Europe, before stranding in a small town called Yharnam. Of Byrgenwerth and then the Healing Church. Of the Choir, the faces of the Gods, until her last breath.

Then, when she opened her eyes again, she was here. In this strange land, isolated and alone. It was not anywhere near Yharnam or Katorimura. In fact, it didn’t resemble any kind of place she was familiar with at all.

Above her, the sky shifted, changing to every possible color and many more that she had never seen before. The landscape in front of her seemed equally fluid. She could see buildings but they never stayed the same for long. Some of them looked new, then old, then unfinished or decaying and other times, they seemed to just blink out of existence. Whole islands or sometimes strange creatures seemed to float through the air, untethered by common logic, floating to unknown destinations. Even the ground she was walking on seemed unstable, with grass growing on it one moment only for it to turn to dry, sour earth the next.

How did she get to such a peculiar place? 

It should have frightened her. After all, such an environment where the rules of time, gravity and physics didn’t apply was something that went against all nature. At least, that was how a normal person would feel. Yurie was not a normal person.

Being at a place like this meant she was no longer on earth. This had to be a world beyond it, beyond the simplicity of existence as humans knew it. For it to be so unstable, she had to be flung out into the cosmos, in a place where existence both began and ended. To be here…surely it meant that she was in the realm of the Great Ones.

That thought brought a smile on her face and excitement settled in her stomach. Had the Great Ones indeed been sympathetic with her? Noticed her and her deeds, unlike so few had done in her life? Had she indeed gained enough eyes on her brain that they deemed her worthy of a better, grander existence upon her death? If so, then who was she to reject such a fine gift?

Who was she to deny the honor of walking upon the very some worlds the Gods had walked?

Just the notion alone filled her with intense glee and without any further doubt or hesitation, she set off. What else could she do? There was no reason for her to remain here and if the Great Ones had deemed it fit to place her here, she was not going to refuse such an offer. Why not explore the cosmos and increase her knowledge.

Thus, that was exactly what she did. For what was likely the next few days, she roamed around this land. She took in the sights, trying to record what she could with charcoal on scraps of paper she would find here and there, caught in the winds of this everchanging world. Why they didn’t disappear once she inscribed them with words and illustrations was a mystery to her, but she decided not to question that which helped her research.

To regard these changes was utterly fascinating. She could stay in one place for hours, simply watching how a landmark would change states and shapes nearly every waking moment. The very ground she walked on would often change and she could be crossing mountains only to hop over streams of lava the net. One moment, she saw a sunlit sky and the next morning, stars fell all around her.

Food didn’t prove to be a problem either. With the world shifting so rapidly, sustenance was readily available, if not fleeting. Fresh wheat on farm grounds, fruit on trees, delicious roasts on an abandoned feat… Surviving proved easy enough with the right kind of speed and reflexes and she found all her basic needs met as she merrily explored. 

She soon learned that this world was not uninhabited. Many strange creatures, from humanoids to mixtures of men and beast, would pass in and out of the world leaving their own stories to tell. Yet the most common creatures were a horrific, crustacean-like race called the dreughs, frightening in their violence and yet deviously intelligent. It was from them that she learned the name of this place. 

Lyg.

While most of these creatures were dead set on killing her and she often found herself avoiding them through sheer wit and speed, a few of them were willing to talk about this odd place. They called it a continent, made by the imprint of a place called Tamriel. A place that was but had no exact location, that both existed in all states at once and then didn’t. 

Others told her that this land place was made by the hope of the Magne Ge, godlike beings who had long abandoned the world and that this place was under the influence of beings called the Daedra. One of them, Molag Bal, had even been a chief of the dreughs and was known to them as the Ruddy Man. Another, Mehrunes Dagon, had smitten this continent with his wrath and ended their rule.

Yurie recorded all of these tales with great interest. With each day passing, her caution of this place lessened and she found herself becoming braver and more at ease. Indeed, this world was a gift to her with its rich history and mysterious nature. After all, what greater life after death could a scholar wish for?

Indeed, she had seen things no other human could have dreamed of. She got to document plants and animals never before seen. Meet beings beyond imagination and immortalized their culture in writing. It was she who visited the fallen cities Kuri and Djaf, Galg and Mor-Galg, Hor and Malbioge. All these things were her share and she reveled in it each and every day.

Until one morning.

Yurie hadn’t noticed the change initially. After all, with so much happening around and overloading her senses, she didn’t pay much attention to anything else. Yet as days and then months went by, she could sense a change in her body and it was only after disrobing that she started to find strange growths on her body.

Initially, she had been cautious but treated the phenomenon with curiosity. After all, strange side effects were nothing new after her time in Yharnam. Yet with time passing, the growths became more severe and, very soon, nightmarish.

The scholar screamed when she woke up from a temporary slumber and was wracked by a terrible pain. It felt like someone had split her side and as if her organs were being pulled out the hole. Unable to take it, she had lifted her clothes to see what it was, only to shriek upon the sight.

Slipping from her side was a head, with a face similar to hers. It seemed to squirm its way out, inch by inch, as if removing itself from mere soil. Once it met with her eyes, it turned to stare at her, dismissively, and opened its mouth to tell her what this was its body and that she should die because she was not the real Yurie.

This yielded yet another screech from the scholar. She reached down to do something about the head, claw it off her if she had to, only for another horror to become clear to her. Her arm no longer had a human shape, instead devolving into something similar to a dreugh claw or a scaled appendage. Not too long after, painful crystals seemed to burst out the skin of her face and soon, she was unable to do everything as similar abnormalities came tearing through her skin at all angles.

Monstrous beings seemed to crawl out of her skin, shouting abuse at her for being unable to leave it. They would be gone the very next moment, replaced by yet another terror, more grotesque and painful from the last. She could see every part of her skin crawl and move as new malformations tore their way to the surface and she could feel how her own innards followed suit, giving birth to many more atrocities to escape her now deforming body.

Within moments, indescribable agony took over all her senses as her body was pulled apart in all directions. Every part of it was sprouting horrific growths, with no coherence, creeping all the way up to her brain. It numbed her mind and as it assaulted every little bit of her consciousness, she could only wonder in utmost fear and horror what was happening to her. Suddenly, despite her suffering, a terrifying hypothesis came to her. 

It was Lyg itself that was causing this. Nothing here ever stayed the same. It was a place that existed and didn’t all at once and everything in it was equally fleeting. In it, she was only constant, the one being that didn’t shift or blink in or out of existence. Her body had been foreign to this impossible realm and its logic, but now, it was bleeding into her. Now, it was tearing her apart.

She could sense new forms taking hold in her mind, the brains splitting to form a million more that were not her own. She tried to resist, to keep her wits about her, but the onslaught wouldn’t stop. It was like fighting a against a tide, aggressively rushing into to pull her under and drown her.

As she lay there, desperately fighting the overwhelming forces reaping havoc on her body and mind, she couldn’t help but wonder. Was the continent of Lyg not a reward but punishment? Was this were she was put for her sins, her part in Byrgenwerth’s rise and that of the Healing Church? Had the Gods sent her here after death based on selfish desire, to inflict ironic torture?

As the transformations warped and mangled her twisted body, she indeed believed it so. This was the price she paid for her hubris, her hunger of knowledge. She was meant to die here, alone maimed and insane, with all her discoveries unknown to the world. A speck of dust on the wind, her flawed existence meaning nothing to the cosmos and those in it.

Those in it… As her sanity started to ebb away, Yurie couldn’t help but recall Willem’s words to her. That those hiding in the cosmos were sympathetic in nature. Powerful beyond imagination, but also caring for human kind. A desperate thought formed in the last vestiges of reason. Would these Great Ones also care for forgiveness if remorse was shown?

It was in that moment, when she could feel her very mind come apart, that she did the thing she considered most futile. She called upon the Gods, Shinto or Great one, any that might listen, and begged them. She pleaded with them, for forgiveness and for salvation, to please cleanse her of her folly to want to walk beside them. She cried out, calling out to the Gods, to whom she was surely nothing more than an ant, to save her from losing herself. 

“You should not be here!”

Yuri gasped and turned at the strange voice behind her. It sounded female, yet something told her it was now human. It seemed to seep into her skull, like whispers in the deepest of her memories. Despite her instinct telling her not to, she turned around to face it. Once she did, however, she could only tremble.

Behind her was a creature, or at least she assumed it was one. Yet it looked nothing like any living being she had ever beheld. It seemed to be made of stone and metal and its shape was neither human nor animal. It grinded and shifted with every movement, inward and outward, like one of the puzzle boxes from her home country. From it shone a light, brighter than a thousand suns, with such intensity that it forced her on her knees.

On instinct, Yurie covered her eyes, shaking all over her body. As that light fell across her mutating body, she never felt more vulnerable. It seemed to bury into her soul, exposing every fear, sin and dark desire she held in there. She felt like a child, quivering before the might of something out of this world. Something that sounded very angry with her.

Was it a Great One, she wondered? One of the many unknown ones, lingering in the cosmos all around her? It seemed like the most logical explanation, yet while it seemed angry with her, it wasn’t for the reason she assumed it was. It seemed angry that she was here in the first place, making it unlikely she was put here as part of some celestial retribution. She spoke despite the pain her now malformed mouth caused her, trying to formulate her thoughts while she still could.

“F-Forgive me, oh Great One. But I have no knowledge that I committed any offense. I simply…ended up here, through ways that are unknown even to me.”

There was a silence between her and the creature for a moment. The light was still on her and she swore she could feel it wriggle into her veins. It invaded her very thoughts, as if it was searching them for the truth. It was nigh unbearable and she swore she was going to pass out.

Just then, however, the light withdrew. She was relieved when it did, but still too frightened to express it. The voice spoke again, this time softer and less angry. 

“Mortals should not be here; those of Nirn are mostly unable to move sideways. It is too dangerous to their minds. Something must have gone wrong for you to enter. You must leave. This place is bleeding into you. I can still undo this before it consumes you…”

Again, Yurie looked down at her body, mangled and shifting. Was that what was actually happening? Was this place bleeding into her and warping her body and mind because it was foreign? Was she not meant to exist here at all? 

Suddenly, she could feel a light shine on her again. Yet this time, it didn’t feel oppressive. It felt warm, soothing. As if it was washing away all the filth and grime she had accumulated throughout her life, painlessly tearing off all the hideous growths. It was liberating and she would have basked in it were it not for the being speaking again. 

“Be gone from this place. This imprint of Tamriel, which exists in neither past, present or future. This mockery of life, built from my hope that can only devour. I, Xero-Lyg, banish thee! Be gone to Tamriel before it is too late! Be gone and live well!”

As those words thundered across her mind, the scholar wanted to protest. How could she leave this place? She had explored most of it already and it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. It was an island and without a boat, she couldn’t possibly leave.

The light, however, grew brighter. So bright and so pure, that it seemed to eat away at her. She felt no pain as the corruption of Lyg was taken from her and how, bit by bit, she seemed to become one with the beam cast over her. Until her body and eventually her mind were pulled through a portal that she couldn’t see.

There were stars then. Planets and moon and rays of celestial light. She was like a tiny speck amidst a cosmic storm. Feeling nothing, hearing nothing, simply floating amidst something beautiful and impossibly grand to comprehend. 

Until, after a thousand lifetimes, there was cold. 

Yurie was so numb from her experience that she initially didn’t notice nor did she pay attention to the snow falling down all around her. It was only when ice started to invade every part of her now naked but unblemished body, draining all warmth from her, that she became fully aware of her current predicament. She jolted up and frantically started to look around for some way to alleviate the icy chill.

It was then she felt a heavy thud nearby and noticed a stack of papers falling into the snow. She gasped as recognizing her research. Had it traveled with her out of Lyg, even if her clothes didn’t?

Her heart skipped a beat as she clumsily reached for them, determined not to let her work go to waste even in her precarious situation. It was only after she quickly gathered them again that she searched for shelter more frantically than before, determined to save herself as well as her research.

Yet wherever she looked, there was nothing but wind and snow, swirling around her and rendering everything invisible. She tried to walk but her the ice made her bare feet hurt. Snowflakes started to cling to her hair and she could practically see her breath crystalize as her body was rapidly cooling off. Trying to cover herself, she tried to move, going in no particular direction, only for her stiff legs to stumble and for her to fall back down. 

She cried out, tears running over her cheeks and practically freezing. She felt so cold… She knew she wasn’t going to last long, being out here like this. Was she going to die here? Alone in a snowstorm without a single person knowing or caring? After all she had gone through, was this her fate? 

Then, just as she could feel her body starting to shut down from the cold, there was something. A shape, dressed in black robes, heading in her direction. She remained motionless, fearful of what it could be, right up to the moment she could finally see it through the snow.

A young woman, with dark hair and pale skin, approached her. She was slightly shorter than her and carrying a basket and a magical staff of sorts, seemingly not too bothered by the cold thanks to the furs she was wearing. When she saw her, her face took on an expression of surprise, then concern. She trudged over, examining her with genuine alarm.

“Are you well?”

Had she not been so cold and distressed, Yurie might have rolled her eyes. She definitely wasn’t well, freezing to death in the middle of nowhere and none of the logical explanations for that would make her seem well either. Still, now was not the time for sarcasm. 

The scholar shook her head, teeth chattering. “N-no. I-I don’t k…know how I ended up here, where I-I am. C-can you t-tell me?”

The woman stared at her, only for a moment but it felt like forever. Yet just as Yurie was about to beg her to say something, she reached into her basket and pulled something from it. The next thing she knew, the taller woman was handed a simple dress, as well as some simple shoes and a thick fur. 

Without thinking, Yurie slipped into them, allowing the woman to help her into them when her stiff, numb limbs wouldn’t manage. The clothes didn’t fit her all that well, but she decided beggars could not be choosers. Especially not when the woman put the fur around her and motioned with her head. 

“Please, come with me. My home is nearby. There you will be out of the cold and you can tell me what happened.”

She then turned around, guiding her by the arm. Yurie could only follow willingly, grateful for the help but wondering what was next. She had still not come to terms with the fact she was seemingly flung through time and space and then somehow woke up in a cold, inhospitable place like this.

What also confused her was just how little shock the woman displayed at finding her in her state. It seemed odd to her. Were she in her shoes and find a naked woman in the middle of a snowstorm, she would assume this person was either drunk or insane. Still, she figured it wise not to question her good fortune and hold off until they had actually reached someplace safe and warm.

Thankfully, that wish was granted. After a brief walk, made much more bearable by the fact she was now clothed, they arrived in what seemed like a bustling little town. She could feel heads turn in their direction as she and the woman walked into it, no doubt because of her somewhat improper attire. 

Fortunately, she didn’t have to stay like this for long. The woman walked up to a large building, opened the door and motioned her to come in. Yurie quickly took her up on it and went inside, feeling immense relief to be out of the snow and hear the door close behind her.

She took a moment to revel in the pleasant warmth of the building, emanating from a hearth at the back of the room. The space itself was lavishly decorated, somewhat reminding her of a Western hunting lodge. Several people were strewn about, comfortably seated on chairs and benches, either having a drink in their hands or carrying crates with alcohol in them. 

On her left, she spotted a counter, with several more bottles on it and large vats as well as several kind of foods. It was there that she realized that she was likely in a brewery. Not that it mattered to her; she was simply glad to be out of the cold. 

She watched how the woman walked up to the man behind the counter. When he saw her, he quickly got from behind it and went to her, embracing her and planting a kiss on her lips. Yurie imagined he was likely her husband or lover, but she didn’t get to wonder for very long as he turned his attention to her.

“Oh, you brought another guest, Circe?”

The woman in black, Circe apparently, shook her head. “No, I found her, unclothed and lost in the storm. I’m bringing her upstairs to get her some proper clothing.”

The moment she said that, he looked at her again and frowned. The scholar could feel herself grow uncomfortable at that. Still, she couldn’t blame him for thinking his lover’s story was rather odd. Yet just as she was about to worry, he turned back to Circe.

“You think she’s one of us?”

The woman in black rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Lucian. I haven’t had time to ask. I much rather made certain she wouldn’t die from the cold beforehand.”

He chuckled. “Fair point. Take her up and get her something warm to wear. Then bring her back down. She might like a warm meal as well.” 

Circe nodded, then turned back to Yurie and asked her to go upstairs with her. The taller woman obeyed, but as she did, she couldn’t help but mull over what the man, Lucian, had said. What did he mean with her being “one of them”? And why, like his wife, did he seem rather calm about having found someone naked in the snow?

Despite her nervousness, she kept that question to herself. Once upstairs, in what seemed like some comfortable living quarters, Circe had her sit on the bed and quickly rifled through some drawers. With a little effort, she found some warm clothes that actually fit her, as well as some boots that didn’t cramp her feet. Feeling a lot more warm and at ease now, the two of them went back down to the counter.

Lucian was already waiting for her there with what seemed like hot tea and a fresh stew, meanwhile helping some other clients at the same time. She gratefully accepted the meal, delighting in its taste and heat. Only when she had consumed most of it did her hosts decided to ask questions.

“So, how did you end up naked in a snowstorm?”

Yurie stopped eating and for a moment, she thought of every possible explanation that wouldn’t sound absurd. Yet even the ones that didn’t seem crazy wouldn’t paint a very flattering picture of her. So, when realizing the silence had gone on too long, she struggled to try and think of something.

“It’s very hard to explain… I..I got lost and…” 

She saw how her hosts looked at each other, an odd expression on their faces. Instantly, she could feel herself grow uncomfortable. They no doubt thought she was crazy. They had to be. Part of her wanted to run, but she remained frozen even as Circe turned to her.

“Let me reiterate that phrase. Which God sent you here?” 

Out of nowhere, Yurie found herself choking on the sip of tea she had just taken. She coughed, looking at the both of them as if they had suddenly transformed into beasts. They knew… How could they possible know?

“Y-you know about the Gods? Then, does the name Xero-Lyg say anything to you?”

Circe nodded. “Indeed it does. One of the Magna Ge, linked to the strange mirror plane of Lyg. If that's true, you must have had an interesting time indeed…”

She was interrupted by her lover. “So, how did you bite the big one?”

By now, Yurie was stunned. “H-how do you…”

Lucian chuckled. “Let’s just say that some people who end up here were not born in Tamriel. Or any other continent of this world. And we can know…”

That last remark had the scholar look them over. The two of them seemed well-integrated into this strange world, no different from the people who were sampling drinks mere feet behind them. She would have never guessed that they were not from here. So if they were not, then where were they from?

“Are you…from Yharnam?”

Circe shook her head. “No, we are from a place named Boletaria. Yet the name sounds somewhat familiar. We have heard of it through travelers who stopped by this town. Colorful tales too, about werewolves, blood and Gods.”

By now, Yurie found herself more confused than ever. She had never heard of Boletaria, yet their description of Yharnam was quite accurate. The way they were talking, she wasn’t even anywhere near the city or the world she knew anymore. It made her on edge. Just where on earth had she ended up?

“I am afraid I do not entirely understand…”

He saw how her hosts looked at each other. She saw how they both let out a light sigh, as if they were about to have a very difficult, awkward conversation. Lucian then turned to her. He grinned and handed her a bottle. She cautiously took it and saw on the label that it was cider.

“Here, have one on the house. You will need it. Welcome to Winterhold, in the province of Skyrim and the land of Tamriel. You have a lot to learn...”

It seemed like hours later when Yurie found herself wide awake, staring at the ceiling of a dark room in what she now knew as the Midwinter Brewery. Her hosts had been so kind to let her stay the night and give her a room of her own in the spacious establishment, but she couldn’t possibly sleep. Not really surprising, after all she had been through. 

There had been so much information for her to digest as they tried to educate her about this new place they were in. Talk of unknown Gods and different worlds and a phenomenon known as “transcendence”. About passing through the veil into a new life at the whim of a higher power or sheer refusal to die. All of it intriguing, but all of it frightening and confusing as well.

Yet what scared her most of all was Lucian and Circe stating that this place was likely her permanent home. While she was definitely most grateful to be as far away from Lyg as possible, she’d rather returned to one of the places she called home, even Katorimura. Instead, she was now stranded in a place that was both unfamiliar and primitive. 

This plane, which seems dreary and normal, with technology below what could be found in Yharnam. The idea that she was forever stuck here was almost as scary as Lyg and sad enough to make her cry. How could one possibly go back to mundanity after seeing the impossible?

Still, the wiser part of her told her there was no use crying over spilled milk. After all, she was alive after a terrible situation and in the company of kind people who wished to help her. Some gratitude would befit her, especially after what she learned from them. 

She was here already and if she had to believe her hosts, she was not the only one from Yharnam who had landed here. There were others out there, clerics and scholars like her from what they told her, people whom she might know. Perhaps it was far better to save her tears and focus on finding and contacting them before giving into despair.

In the meantime, she figured, perhaps she could make herself useful here. She had fast knowledge of many useful technologies, ones that could greatly benefit a bustling little town such as Winterhold. What more, her arcane knowledge might actually be an asset at the College north of the town, where apparently both Circe and Lucian practiced magic.

“Magic”. That word alone gave her some hope that existing here might not disappoint her. She would be more than content spending her time surrounded by it while waiting for her fellow Yharnamites to call on her, happy to contribute and integrate. What’s more, despite the two’s claims that the College was strict on admissions, she had something that would surely set her apart.

She quickly stepped out of bed and grabbed the stack of papers on the table beside her. She looked over her scrawled words and drawings, perfectly bound together courtesy of Lucian, and she grinned excitedly. Quickly looking around, she found a quill and lit a nearby lantern. 

Why Xero-Lyg had allowed her to keep these, she didn’t know, but she was not going to question the kindness of a mysterious Goddess. To her, this meant everything and it seemed that her hard-earned knowledge would be seen by others after all. That was all a scholar could possibly wish for.

Perhaps, her suffering had not been nothing, after all. Maybe, just maybe, her pain and terror would yield something beautiful in this new world. The beginning of a new story, in which she was yet to shine. She smiled and started writing across the empty front page, in elegant lettering.

_The Continent of Lyg, by Yurie of Yharnam, Transcendent Scholar._


	7. Tu'whacca's Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henryk makes a choice about his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henryk's ethnicity was a little hard for me to pin down. Unlike Eileen, whose voice actor Jacqueline Boatswain has officially confirmed that the character is a black woman who was born in Africa, we know nothing about Henryk's origin. A look at his character model reveals he's notably dark-skinned, which would make him likely African, if not Indian or Southeast Asian. Additionally, he has blue eyes, which isn't a common eye color in any of these locations and his name (provided it's his real name) is decidedly European. In the end, I settled on him being of mixed descent from the South-African region. That's purely my creative take on it, however, so don't take it as fact.  
> Additionally, some sources on the internet state that Tu'whacca may be another name for Arkay or Orkey, the Divine of Life and Death. While these two Gods as well as Xarxes definitely have things in common, the details on their spheres of influence and origin differ significantly and the lore seems deliberately vague. What's more a lot of Redguards seem to dislike the idea of these two being conflated. As such, I will hold Tu'whacca as his own seperate entity, even though he may actually be an aspect of the Imperial Divine or related.

One should fear an old man in a world where many die young.

Henryk thought that description applied to him very well. After all, he was old. Very old. In fact, by now, he was alive for more than a century and after a hundred years of being alive and witnessing countless horrors, his body showed no signs of weakening with age. 

A gift, the Healing Church had called it. The Old Blood that had been administered to him when he offered his services as a Hunter in Yharnam. Drawn from the veins of the Great Ones themselves, it would give strength, health, knowledge… It would even extend one’s life beyond that of a normal human’s.

It indeed gave him all those things and more. He was strong, healthy, aware of things many a normal mind couldn’t conceive of. Yet contrary to what the Church said, he no longer saw it as a gift or even a blessing. It was a curse, for what was the point of living so long if you watched everyone you love die before you, not knowing if you would follow soon if at all? 

Gascoigne, his longtime companion during the Hunt, was gone. Lost to beasthood and put down. His wife had died in the mob violence. Their little girls, whom he’d loved like his own grandchildren, met with equally violent fates. All he had left was himself now and even that was quickly slipping. 

Mad with grief and anger, he had tried to avenge his fallen friend. He had gone to the Tomb of Oedon and waited to see if his companion’s murderer would show up. He eventually did and Henryk had moved in to exact revenge. With both pistol and saw cleaver in hand, he had descended upon the young man, just about ready to tear him apart then and there.

The target of his vengeance, however, didn’t come alone. Soon, there was another with him. He knew her. Eileen, a fellow Hunter from Africa, and a Hunter from Hunters. She too attacked him, though he knew it was not so much to protect the youth as that she wanted him dead. After all, he was a Hunter abandoning his task to kill humans. As a Hunter of Hunters, he was simply her latest prey.

He fought the two the best he could, hoping to stay alive at least long enough to avenge Gascoigne, but between Eileen’s experience and the Hunter’s speed and agility, he was quickly losing. Soon, he was on his knees, bleeding from multiple wounds. Eileen had stood over him, saying a prayer in her native Yoruba, He had grinned at her, hidden behind his high collar. He didn’t feel anger at her at all for ending him, not now there was nothing left. 

If anything, she had done him a favor…

Now, there was only peace and he found his now sane spirit comfortably drifting through nothingness. Part of him was surprised that it did, that anything of him remained after death. That he didn’t become part of this void, which he was sure was the beginning and end of all life. 

Henryk didn’t believe in a heaven. His late parents, of both European and Khoisan descent, had each believed in gods and raised him to be a believer. He had held true to it when he left South-Africa, but had gradually stepped away from such beliefs in his journeys across Europe and particularly when he came to Yharnam. He would have chuckled if he could. Had they known of his apostasy, or even where his soul had ended up, they would be disappointed to say the least. 

No, the Great Ones were not the kind of omnipotent deity eager for worship that he had grown up with. Sympathetic, certainly, but not nearly interested enough in humans to care for their every action or to bother devising reward or punishment after death. To them, humans were a curious but passing phenomenon, not worth their time when there was a greater universe to explore.

So that left him alone, the remnants of his beings still wandering aimlessly through nothingness. To him, it was no worry. After all, he was old and had lived far too long. He could do with the rest.

The only thing that truly agonized him was the thought of Gascoigne and his family. He had loved the man and his family like his own kin, ever since the day he had taken him under his wing. They too were gone now and he wondered if they too had passed into this dark infinity. He supposed so, couldn’t think of any other explanation. Wherever they were, he just hoped that they were at peace as well… That to them, this nothing was as comforting as it was to him.

Yet in time, possibly after several lifetimes, there was more than simply nothing. Somewhere, far away but still visible, there were lights, colors. A sign of life and existence, vibrant and alluring. A promise of something beyond the void.

Despite himself, Henryk found himself drawn to it. There was something warm and welcoming to it, something that implored him to come closer. An innate instinct, like a bird who knows to migrate south when winter approached.

He obeyed. What else could he do? He was gone now and had all the time in the world. What harm was there to leisurely explore here in the great beyond?

As such, he confidently stepped into the light. He marveled at the change as he did. He didn’t understand why, but he could feel his very being become stronger. It was as if the very light of this colored nothing sapped away all his fatigue. It brought about a sense of warmth within him, one he hadn’t felt in a long time.

It gave him the courage to move even further and it wasn’t long before he was happily exploring this new realm of infinity. He took in all the sights, reveling in the visions and the sheer size of this space. He smiled, for the first time in years. 

He felt oddly at ease in this place, wherever it might be. This place wasn’t like Yharnam, weighed down with sins and grime of a million questionable deeds acted out upon its grounds, fueled by strange blood. This place felt primitive and pure, like a canvas that could be used to yield grand things. There was a sense of comfort to it despite his vastness, as if he was at the bosom of the universe. 

So caught up was he in this newfound sense of tranquility that he didn’t notice signs of a disturbance in the distance. At the furthest reaches of this space, something was stirring. A strange being had opened its eyes and a long, forked tongue slid out of its mouth. It sensed an intruder in its territory and with that knowledge came the only emotion it had ever known. 

Hunger.

Urged on by this instinct, it started to move. It slithered through the air, its slit pupils looking back and forth to find its prey. Soon, they caught sight of it. A mass of heat, one that only a soul could carry. A lost soul, for this being to take and devour.

It crept closer and closer, its entire body taut with anticipation. His poor, lost quarry had no idea that he was hunted. That he was about to become food to a cosmic entity who had existed since the beginning of Nirn.

As he wandered, transfixed by the sight of infinity between spaces, the being crept closer. With every second, it silently approached, until it was only mere inches away from him. It opened its mouth, exposing its curved and rearward teeth. Soon, it would feast, before the lost soul would even realize what had happened to him. 

That was where it was wrong.

Even in this odd place, Henryk’s instinct remained as sharp as ever. It hadn’t taken him long to realize he was no longer alone. Immediately on high alert, he’d kept his weapons close and waited, eyes and ears open, watching his every step as he waited for his potential attacker to come closer.

The second he felt the creature’s breath in his neck, he whipped around. Met with a large, open mouth filled with giant rows of teeth, he didn’t hesitate. Setting his saw cleaver to its transformed form, he leaped inside the monster’s maw and buried its serrated edge into the roof of the monster’s mouth. 

An otherworldly screech was his reward. The jaws snapped shut on impact, but the Hunter was quicker. He hurled himself out of the creature’s mouth, only to quickly scramble to his feet and assume a fighting stance.

The creature, whose face he could now see, defied imagination. It was a snake of some kind, yet larger than any serpent he had ever seen in his long life. The same went for its overall appearance. Its features were not like those of a normal reptile, not even of the abominations he met in Yharnam. In fact, they seemed almost human yet so narrow and alien, exacerbated by the snakelike pupils and overstretched maw into an eldritch monstrosity. 

Once it had shook off the pain, it glared at him. Raising its head above the ground, it let out a deep, spiteful hiss. Its mouth opened to once again reveal its jagged teeth. It only caused him to smile.

He had no idea where this horror came from. Frankly, he didn’t care. He was a Hunter of Beasts and here, he somehow felt stronger than ever before. 

“You want to eat me? Well, go then. Give it a try. I’ve killed some troublesome snakes before…”

The serpent happily took him up on the invitation. Faster than an arrow could leave a bowstring, it lashed out in his direction. Slobbering jaws eagerly snapped at him, to devour his flesh in the blink of an eye.

Henryk didn’t hesitate. With great speed, he reached for his gun, aimed and shot the creature right in the eye. He watched as the bullet left the weapon and burrowed into the socket, blood splattering everywhere. The creature pulled back with a shriek, allowing him to go on the offense. 

Turning his saw cleaver back to his original state, he sped up to the being and began to slash at the skin. Angry and vicious, he tore open the creature’s skin, uncaring as crimson blood stained his brilliant yellow garb. He drove the iron as deep into the flesh as he could, only to quickly jump back as the creature attacked again.

He grinned at it from behind his high collar, an old sense of excitement rushing through his veins. It almost made him laugh. When was the last time he had felt that way? It didn’t matter. He had prey to kill.

Once more, he rushed to meet his attacker with weapons in hand. He dashed left and right as the thing snapped at him. He could feel the wind from where the creature’s jaws narrowly missed him, barely outrunning each and every attack and responding with devastating attacks of his own.

Within moments, the two of them were entangled in a dangerous joust. They would strike when there was an opening, attacking and evading at lightning speed. The snake would snap at his legs. He was try to go for the eyes. On and on, without either of them backing down.

The Hunter definitely had no intention of doing so. He was a fighter, had always been that way. It was how he had become a The League in the first place.

Before he ever became a part of the Healing Church, he’d become a part of The League. He had been in the forest surrounding Yharnam at the time, hunting. A new arrival who received a lukewarm welcome at best in the city and too proud to beg, he’d taken to providing for himself in the woods. At least, that was his plan until a beast beset him.

The monster had a mind to tear him apart, but he hadn’t been cooperative. Instead, he’d taken his hunter’s knife and bestowed upon the creature a world of pain. Regardless of the bites and scratches he received in the process, he kept pushing back against his inhumanly strong attacker. Long enough for the earliest members of The League to show up and help him take it down.

Their leader, Valtr, had been more than impressed with him for staying alive as long as he did. He had immediately extended invitation to join him and with nowhere else to go, Henryk had happily accepted. Little had he known back then that this would be the beginning of his career as a Hunter and, eventually, his ascension through the ranks of the Healing Church’s beast-hunting warriors.

Yet now, there was no Healing Church anymore. No beasts. No Old Blood. There was only him and this monster. And even now, after having lived far too long, he had no intention to yield.

As they fought on, the serpent grew ever more fierce. Its attacks became more frenzied, less coordinated. Soon, they seemed to be fueled by sheer anger and frustration, leaving greater gaps for him to retaliate. Henryk only grew more confident as it did and pressed his advantage, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Then and there, he spotted an opening and with the confidence of years of practice, he struck. He leaped to strike the creature in the belly, but as he did so, he realized he had made a great mistake. From the corner of his eye, he saw that giant mouth with long teeth open and suddenly, it shot forward.

Temporarily frozen with fright, the Hunter thrust his blade forward to defend himself, but it was too late. Within seconds, both jaws had clamped around him. He only barely avoided the teeth, only for the creature to swallow and his chance of escape being dashed as he slipped down the serpent’s gullet.

Pure panic assaulted him as he was plunged in darkness and a foul air enveloped him on all sides. Soon, he landed in what he was sure was the beast’s stomach and he could feel a strange substance bite at his legs. His heart stopped. He was now in the beast’s stomach.

He wanted to scream, but the abysmal lack of oxygen kept him from doing so. He tried to move, to see, what the darkness all around him seemed infinite and with every second passing, it become even more clear that there was no ready way out. A horrified shiver passed through his body. He’d lost. He was eaten, blade and all, and here in the belly of a beast is where he would die.

His blade.

That realization broke him out of his despair. Gripping his weapon tightly, he reached around him, until he finally found the soft, fleshy walls of his stomach. He smirked and without thinking, he slammed his weapon into the surface and started sawing. He was going to die here, waiting to suffocate and for the snake to digest him. He would simply cut his way out before the damned beast even got the chance.

It wasn’t long before the inner flesh gave way, barely able to resist the sharp edge of his saw cleaver. He hacked away with it with desperate fury, his anger and desperation filling him with adrenaline. Soon, it tore apart in a stream of blood and other bodily fluids and Henryk’s ears were met with the creature’s screams. 

The Hunter cared little for it, instead wriggling his way through the newly made hole. He paid no mind to the foul odor on him or the blood and guts. Instead, he turned back on his tormentor and proceeded to tear the whole wider, determined to cause the being as much grief as possible.

The serpent now seemed well aware of just how hardy his prey was. This time, it didn’t retaliate. Instead, the creature turned its head away from him, hissing frantically, and started to slither off, hurriedly, as if a demon itself was on its heels.

Henryk watched as the giant serpent beat a hasty retreat. For a brief moment, he thought of pursuing it, but his own ragged breath kept him from it. Instead, he remained where he was, gnashing at the pain of his strained muscles and wiping the sweat off his brow.

The battle had been one of the hardest of his entire life. He felt like he had run miles while chased by wolves. His heart was pounding like mad, his vision was blurry. He was so fatigued, he felt like he could collapse at any minute and simply fall to the floor to sleep then and there.

Of course, he was far too wise to actually do such a thing. He was still here, on this infinite plain of colors, with no place to hide or find shelter. There was a good chance the serpent might return and he definitely wouldn’t risk becoming its meal after all.

So he looked around, deciding what he would do next. Only now was he really wondering just how far this place stretched. Into infinity perhaps with nothing beyond it? He could feel his bones ache at the thought. 

Was he in the snake’s domain? A domain that never ended? Was he fated to fight it forever, with only brief moments of respite. That thought scared him. He was strong and fearless, not easily scared, let alone of some overgrown serpent. Still, even he couldn’t fight forever.

It was then that he noticed it. In the distance, not too far away of him. A gate, seemingly made of claystone, leading to some place he couldn’t see.

He could feel his eyebrows raise. He was quite certain that it hadn’t been there before. Had it simply just…appeared here? Materialized in the middle of infinity?

He didn’t think about this question for long. He had nowhere to go right now, no place that might shelter him from the monster he had just fought. In his current state, he was in no way capable of fending off another attack. He might as well go through that gate and see what lay behind it.

Having made that decision, Henryk took a deep breath and approached the construction. It didn’t disappear as he got close it nor didn’t anything about it suggest a trap. Instead, it reminded him of the constructions of African civilizations of the past, of which he had seen many as he traveled out of his homeland. 

He absentmindedly ran a hand across the wooden gates. The material was thick and battered, as if it had withstood a thousand battles. They were adorned with beautiful carvings and metalwork, depicting many a great skirmish. Not least of all, many of them involving gigantic serpents…

Curiously, the Hunter pushed against those heavy doors and much to his surprise, they gave way. He chuckled briefly, relishing his good fortune, but not for long. Soon, he slipped through and closed it behind him, eager to see what was on the other side.

Once he did, he found his eyes widening. So much so that he rubbed them and looked again, certainly he was deceived in some way. Before him, stretching out as far as the eye could see, was the kind of world he hadn’t seen in a long time. 

In front of him were beautiful buildings and statues, much like those he was familiar with in South-Africa. Yet these were not ruins. Instead, they stood proudly among the sand with lit torches, under a beautiful blue sky with barely a cloud. All around them stood waving palm trees, green and lush meadows and a clear, pure river moved through the landscape hailing from a grand waterfall in the distance. 

All around him, there were people moving to and from. Most of him had the same dark skin as he had, though their clothes, jewelry and markings seemed like something from the ancient past. Some carried bounty from the hunt, others sacks of wine, weaponry or simple household tools. Some sang a jolly tune in a language he couldn’t discern. They practically ignored him, not taking note of his own unusual appearance nor the stink he emanated, far too invested in reaching their own unknown destination.

The Hunter could only stare, enthralled but confused. Where had he ended up? A quick look around revealed the gate he’d come through was gone. Instead, there was only this strange oasis of sorts, filled with the kind of comforts most people could only dream of. 

That thought had him pause. Was this a dream perhaps? A trick pulled by his own imagination? A mirage, like sometimes manifested in the deserts of his home continent? Honestly, that thought didn’t seem so strange.

And yet…

The Hunter couldn’t deny the strange energy of this place. How light and pleasant it felt, how it seemed to lift his spirits. He couldn’t explain why, but something about this place felt right. Like this was a place where he was supposed to be. 

Home… This place felt like home…

“What have you wrought, errant soul, that you have managed to step into the Far Shores?”

Henryk looked up, even more confused. A man rising from a throne had appeared beside him, seemingly out of thin air. Clinging to his blade, he calmly looked him over as to discern his motives.

The first thing he noticed was how old the man looked. Despite the apparent strength of hiss body and sharp features, he practically radiated age. It was as if he had seen the cosmos since the beginning of time and witnessed every single change since then. It almost made the Hunter chuckle. He could somewhat relate to him then.

“Forgive me, old man, but I haven’t the slightest clue how I got here. Until a few moments ago, I was simply battling a giant serpent.”

The irreverence in his tone didn’t go unnoticed by the older man. He suddenly inched closer to him, looking him over the way the Hunter might have once examined a fallen beast. It put him on edge and he took a step back, especially when the man stretched out his hand and held it in front of him, the way a sangoma back home might do to assess an affliction.

“Calm yourself, Henryk, Hunter of Beasts. I have no intention of harming you. Old Sep probably already tried to. The Snake does so with every soul who tries to enter here.” 

That statement was enough to make the Hunter back away further. He looked the old man, hostile and confused now, raising the sawblade ever so slightly. He didn’t like this. Not at all. 

“How do you know my name, old man?”

The old man smiled. “Because it is my task to. As it is for all of the deceased souls that make it to this place.”

The explanation came readily and easily, as if it had been answered countless time before. It made him wonder. Was this not some kind of mirage after all?

“Who are you?”

The man bowed his head ever so lightly. “I am Tu’whacca. The God of Souls. It is I who guides souls through the dark voids to the Far Shores, past the serpent Sep, so they might find their eternal rest.”

Tu’whacca… Henryk had known many gods in his life, but this name sounded utterly unfamiliar to him. As did the name of this place. It made him wonder. Was this what he thought it was? 

“So this is the Far Shores? Am I in the afterlife?”

Tu’whacca nodded. “Yes, though I don’t think you were meant to be here.”

The Hunter looked at him. “What do you mean with that?”

“The souls that come to me are mostly Ra Gada, those of the blood of Yokuda from the world of Nirn. You, however, are from another place entirely.”

Henryk could only frown as he heard these words. Ra Gada, Yokuda, Nirn… All these terms were utterly unfamiliar to him. He felt uncomfortable in the very pit of his stomach. 

“Does that mean I can’t stay here?”

“You can if you wish. You have fought your way across the void, made it to these Shores. That makes you worthy of staying. The question is, however, do you want to? I sense great age in you and your eyes are weary from all that you’ve seen. Yet I also sense immense doubt.”

Perhaps it was that accurate assessment that brought Henryk's guard down. “I…do not know. I am old… Too old. I have lived too long, seen too much. I…made a choice when I came to Yharnam. A rather uninformed one. It caused me to live far beyond my years and now, my very soul is weary. Your offer to let me rest is tempting. And yet…”

The God of Souls smiled. “There are those you love. An old partner, his wife and two little girls. Those whose wellbeing you want to be assured of.”

By now, Henryk no longer had any doubts of the man’s deific status and simply nodded. “Yes.”

Tu’whacca smiled. “I think they are still alive. They are on Nirn, stranded there after their souls got lost, just like yours. I could send you to them if you want to. You can still go back to Nirn as your soul didn’t die there, though I’m afraid your gift of longevity will not come with you. Still, I could rejuvenate you, so you can live out your life there and have a second chance.”

The Hunter couldn’t believe the offer had just presented to him. Was this deity truly willing to bring him back to life? To give him back his youth? Could he truly leave this place and start his life all over, restored to the man he once was? Certainly, it was a chance many a dead soul would be eager to take.

Yet at what cost? 

Again, Henryk could feel the age of his own mind. A mind still strong and sharp but weary of all he had witnessed and experienced. Was he willing to go through all of that again? To live so long to see the world change once more? To potentially see everyone he loved die before him? The answer was clearer than ever. 

He chuckled and shook his head. “I need no such elaborate favor, God of Souls.”

The god stared at him in shock and he continued. “I do wish to see my loved ones again, but not as a young man. I don’t fear death of old age. I already lived longer than I should and it is a heavy burden. Only give me twenty years on Nirn. Twenty and not more. Give me enough time to reunite with Gascoigne and Viola, to see their little girls grow up and well off. Let them be the ones to bury me, as it should be. Then let me return to the Far Shores for my final rest.” 

For a moment, Tu’whacca didn’t speak. He looked at him as if he heard the most outlandish words in his eternal life. This silence was so intense that he could hear a pin drop and lasted so long that Henryk wondered if his wish was too much to ask for. 

Then, however, the deity laughed, warmly and genuinely. “Many Ra Gada could do with your wisdom, Hunter of Beasts. I shall grand your request. Nothing would please me more.”

It took a few moments before his response got through to the Hunter, but once it did, he felt a smile spread across his face. A deep sense of relief took hold of him and he felt a strange sense of excitement inside him. He didn’t move as the God of Souls approached him and uttered no protest as he lay a hand on his forehead. A pleasant warmth came from it, soothing and powerful, just like the words the deity spoke. 

“Go to them, Henryk. Find your loved ones and may you find happiness before you will return to these Far Shores.”

Henryk closed his eyes in response to this blessing and the moment he opened them again, he was no longer in the city. Instead, he found himself looking at lush green forests and tall, snowy mountains in the distance, looking nothing like the place he had been in a mere moment ago. Still, it wasn’t the change of scenery that bothered him as much as the cold wind, now bearing down on his naked body. 

Instantly freezing to his very bones, he started looking for some way to cover himself. His eye quickly fell on a bundle beside him. He stooped down to pick it up, only to grin when he found clothes and boots, as well as a curved sword and a bag of coins. Clearly, Tu’whacca had favored him enough not to send him on his way unprepared. 

He quickly donned the offering, then surveyed the surroundings in his more comfortable state. It was only now that he realized there was a road of cobblestone several feet away from him. Reasoning it was bound to lead somewhere, he got up and decided to follow it.

It was only after a few moments, however, that a sound attracted his attention. He turned in the direction of the sound, only to see a cart heading his way. It was drawn by a single, heavyset horse and was driven by a young woman. Realizing he could actually do with directions, he quickly approached the cart, motioning her to stop.

“May I have a word, ma’am?” 

She slowed the cart, albeit hesitantly and looked him over with both surprise and suspicion. He didn’t blame her. It wasn’t always safe for women to travel alone, never mind talk to strangers. Nevertheless, he pressed on.

“I’m afraid I’m rather lost. Could you tell me where this road leads to?”

His question, spoken in earnest, seemed to soften her somewhat and she smiled. “Certainly. Where I come from leads to Riverwood. Following this road north leads to Whiterun, the trading center of Skyrim.”

Neither name said anything to him, but he figured the latter one would be more practical in finding his way around. “Is there some place in Whiterun where I could spend the night?”

She nodded. “Yes, they have an inn called The Bannered Mare there. You can sleep and get a meal there.”

Henryk smiled and was just about to thank her, when she spoke again. “Do you need a ride there?”

That was more than the Hunter could have hoped for. He eagerly affirmed her question and happily took a seat beside her when she made room. Soon, the two of them were on their way and he reached into his bag of coins, offering her some to compensate for her generosity. The woman, however, simply laughed and shook her head.

“No need. Keep it for a roof over your head. I am not in any need for money.”

Her ready refusal had him slide the coins back in his pocket and in the silence that ensued, he glanced at the back of the cart, filled with crates. “Are you a trader of some kind?”

She nodded. “Yes. My brother Lucan and I run a trading post in Riverwood. I am Camilla, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Henryk, Miss Camilla.”

A tilt of the head was his response. “Henryk, huh? Odd name for a Redguard.”

The Hunter could only wonder what she meant with that. The word seemed similar to “Ra Gada”, the word Tu’whacca had used to describe the people in the Far Shores. He definitely looked like those people at first glance. Perhaps it was the term used for them here and his name didn’t line up with their naming traditions? He decided to let the matter rest for now, instead continuing the conversation

“So, are you headed to Whiterun too then? Either to sell or to buy?”

“Both. Whiterun has many farms with a surplus of produce that they’re willing to sell to anyone with the coin. At the same time, people within the city are very interested in unusual trinkets adventurers sell to a trading post like ours. A profit always comes easy that way.”

Henryk chuckled at that. “Sounds like you have a good business plan going.”

Camilla beamed. “Indeed I have. Especially since Springflower Farm was established there. It deals in alchemical plants and fungus for a fair price. It’s run by two Bretons, Gascoigne and Viola. Business has doubled since we decided to trade with them.” 

She said more after that, but the Hunter no longer heard her. The very mention of his friend’s name had him freeze. It was him, he knew then and there. It was far too much coincidence that there would be another couple bearing those names. His closest companion was here…and he was alive.

Camilla gave him a strange look upon seeing his happy expression. “Wait… Do you know them? Gascoigne and Viola?”

His heart was beating so fast that Henryk was sure it was going to leap out of his throat. He must have looked like a fool, grinning like a madman. It didn’t matter. Not when he felt this happy and so excited he could barely sit still. The one thing he’d hoped for was truth now. Tu’whacca had indeed shown him great kindness. He turned to her, beaming.

“Oh yes, I do. I may not know where Whiterun is, but I definitely know them…”

The ride to Whiterun wasn’t overly long, but it felt like forever before they arrived at its outskirts. Camilla pointed him to where Springflower Farm was and it took him all of his might not to simply leap off the cart and run there. Instead, he contented himself with waiting, knowing he would see them again soon enough.

When Camilla finally stopped in front of the simple but elegant house, he quickly got off and looked around for a sign of familiarity. He soon got it, as two blond children came running outside to greet the wagon. Yet the moment he looked upon them, they stood motionless.

Henryk swallowed as he looked at them. The last time he saw Alicia and Isabelle had been a nightmare, one where he wept as he held their lifeless little bodies. To see them again like this, alive and well, was a blessing he couldn’t possibly put into words.

“Granddad?”

That single word was all it took. He stooped down, arms outstretched, begging them to let him hold them. It was the only invitation they needed, as they rushed up to him and practically threw themselves into his embrace. He could only smile as they kissed his cheeks and held him close, tittering away like happy little sparrows.

“Granddad, we missed you so much! Daddy and mummy said you weren’t coming to see us anymore, but we knew you would! We have a farm now! You’ll like it here!”

The Hunter simply listened, too content to feel sadness at that statement. He could feel Camilla’s eyes burn in his back with utmost astonishment, no doubt wondering if he was actually related to these girls. It didn’t matter to him. As far as he was concerned, these were his grandchildren even if they weren’t bound by blood and he loved them as much as their parents. 

By now, the two of them were looking up, chirping in excitement. “Mummy, daddy! Granddad is here! Granddad is back!”

It was at that very moment that he could feel two figures approaching him from behind. At first, there was a sense of urgency in their step, no doubt fed by alarm as to why a stranger was holding their children. Yet as Alicia and Isabelle continued to talk, he could feel how they halted and merely stood petrified, staring at his back.

“Henryk?”

The Hunter looked over his shoulder. He couldn’t mistake that voice for anyone else. It was with a smile that he regarded the man he knew could be no other than Gascoigne.

He was not as tall as he remembered and certainly didn’t look as warped, his hesitant smile showing no fangs. It seemed the curse of the beast blood had not followed him to this life. He wore simple clothes, a far cry from his cleric robes, his skin tanned by doubtlessly many hours of laboring outdoors. Still, Henryk felt, there was an air of calmness to him that he had not sensed in the man for a long time.

“I-is it really you?”

Viola looked much the same to how he last saw her, yet he could spy small differences. Her skin had taken on a darker shade as well and she looked a little more disheveled with callused hands befitting of her new way of life. Yet the dark bags under her eyes were gone and they shone with unparalleled liveliness.

The three of them remained there for a while, watching each other in silence. All of them knew what they were to do, but none of them proceeded. Almost as if they were afraid that this was all a dream and the moment they would touch each other, it would all be over.

Yet in the end, Gascoigne took the initiative. Swift as a sigh, he sprinted over to Henryk and threw his arms around him. The old Hunter could feel his bones ache, but it mattered not to him. He bore the discomfort, happily, especially when Viola joined in with an embrace of her own. 

Nothing was said in that moment of intimate reconciliation. In fact, no words were needed. All that was important was closeness and the love between people who had shared so much together. 

Henryk knew, then and there, that he had never been happier. The people he loved, the very people for whom he’d give his life, were here with him and unlike before, no cursed blood would come between them. He’d have the next two decades to spend time with them, to watch them grow and develop, to actually enjoy his own old age. After that, he knew he would pass on to a good place, one where he could be at peace for the rest of eternity. It was how he had always wanted it; how it should be.

He looked at them, this family whom he loved more than he could describe. Who seemed just as glad to have him back with them. The people whom he couldn’t forget and to whom he had returned, through death and the afterlife. He smiled, not caring that his eyes were now clouded with tears. 

“It looks like we meet again in this life, my old friends...”


	8. King Orgnum's Coffer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saint Adeline dreams of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who aren't hardcore TES loreists (aka, most of us) or didn't play most or all of the TES games, the Maormer or Sea Elves are an Elven race who only appear in _The Elder Scrolls Online_ , which takes place long before the events of _Skyrim_. While there is no record of them in the Fourth Century, nothing indicates that they are extinct and it's just as likely that they have simply retreated to their home continent of Pyandonea for the time being. They are a rather fascinating race, shrouded in mystery, and thus, they seemed interesting to use for an entry. Especially since their domain is the seas and those in the Research Hall in _Bloodborne_ seem very obsessed with it.

She dreamed of the ocean.

For years now, Adeline had seen it. In every slumbering moment, she saw the sea. Endless, churning. The sticky, dripping whispers told her of it and how, if only she tried, she could reach it and ascend to something more.

It was the one thing she had longed for. Since they day she was taken away from her family as a little girl to become a Blood Saint. From that day, she had never been good enough. Always berated, always put down, always told that it was the Healing Church that elevated her and she was nothing without their blessing. It had instilled in her a deep desire to do better, to become something else than a lowly Blood Saint.

It was why she had readily volunteered when the Healing Church needed subjects to test their theories on ascension. It didn’t even matter to her that that most of the doctors considered her expendable. She was done with her life of lending others her blood yet be considered less than nothing. She wanted to be at peace with herself, feel content in her own existence and if she somehow managed to survive the procedure, then perhaps she would attain that.

The treatments had been gruesome, so painful that even now she couldn’t express it in any known language. She was strapped onto all kinds of devices, injected with strange concoctions and made to imbibe endless amounts of water. Soon after that, it was followed by brain fluid, a revolting substance yet a strangely addicting one. Often times, she was too sick or in pain to even notice her surroundings, quickly becoming deaf to the screams of the other patients, clinging on to a desperate hope she would not fail. Clinging onto the sticky, mushy visions of dripping water, of a world beyond.

Then, after countless years, she saw it. At last, she saw it. Even after the Research Hall went quiet and Lady Maria, the one researcher who showed her kindness, abandoned her. Another kind soul came by and offered her the brain fluid that had been withheld from her and soon, she could envision it. She saw the Great Ones and their Kin in their fully glory and the exact means that would make her one of them.

It had been at that very moment that life slipped away from her. She recalled seeing her own body as it did or rather, what was left of it. She felt nothing as it saw the sack that held her mushy remains together, how its pulsing contents sagged as the spark inside her faded. She had attained her vision and seen greatness. It was all she could have ever asked for.

She had expected things to end there. After all, she had witnessed what she was supposed to and lacked the strength to ascend to a new, more powerful form. It was time now for her to go, for her to rest eternally.

Yet here she was. Lost. Swept onto the tides, submerged in a dark, cold waves and adrift to nowhere.

Initially, she found a sense of harmony in this. It was better than the monotonous horrors of the Research Hall. Here, it was quiet, free of blood and smells, and she was so happy with what she had achieved that she didn’t worry about the future.

After a while, however, it started to frighten her. Why was it that her mind was still conscious, if it was bereft of any kind of body and could move neither backward or forward? That feeling only increase when, eventually, she swore she could feel herself, her very essence, fading. 

It was there fear took over. Was she slowly going to disappear? Just go away, bit by bit, and be aware of it as she lost herself? Lost everything she had fought so hard for? Perhaps, she hadn’t attained ascendance at all… Had she somehow still failed to ascend and was this punishment after all?

“What a wretched thing is this that lingers in the empty space between planes?”

The voice she heard was deep and commanding, filled with astonishment. She could feel its presence very near, unseen eyes examining her emotionlessly. Instantly, she was beset with alarm. In her current shape, she couldn’t see or feel. She was less than a shape, fading away between the lines and she felt utterly helpless and powerless in the face of this strange force. 

“Please, do not be cross with me. I meant no trouble, I promise.”

Her weak plea seemed to stun the owner of the voice. “You…are sentient. Who are you? _What_ are you?”

She would have trembled if she could. Oh, how she wished for eyes right now. Not the ones inside of her brain, but ones to see. To gaze upon this being watching her and discern his motives.

Still, she didn’t get to ponder for very long. He was clearly waiting for her answer and she could sense a twinge of impatience in him. Not knowing what else to do, she decided to simply tell the truth. 

“I…I am Adeline. I…I used to be human.”

Almost immediately, she could sense an air of surprise around the being. She swore she could feel him reach out to her, only to hesitate and pull back. He continued to study her for a little longer before letting out a sigh.

“You will not last long like this.”

Of all the things he could have said, those words were perhaps the most painful of all. Once again, she was fully aware of her fragile, fleeting state. Suddenly, her soul felt really heavy, as she verbally confirmed that which she didn’t want to acknowledge.

“No, I don’t think so… In fact, I think I will fade very, very soon…”

Then, she sensed the being smiling. “I could stabilize you, if you so wish.”

That statement, spoken with a sense of warmth and care, had Adeline lost for words. Again, she longed for the ability to see. To have some indication of not being tricked. Even in her desperate state, she couldn’t help but ask.

“You can? How?”

“I can put you in a crystal. A soul gem, if you will. It won’t be a permanent solution, but it will preserve your essence until there is a better option available.”

The Blood Saint didn’t answer immediately

What he described seemed utterly strange to her. Keeping a soul in a crystal? It sounded like something fantastical. Still, she was not exactly in a position to argue about what could and could not be done.

“Very well then. Please, save my soul from disappearing. Save me…”

That was all the being needed. She could hear how he softly muttered a number of strange incantations and suddenly, she could feel a pull on her body. An unknown force pulled her towards something, leaving her unable to resist.

Within seconds, she could feel something encase her. It felt cold, but not unpleasantly so. If anything, it made her feel safe and secure to be inside its confines. She was no longer fading, her essence contained, and that alone was a pleasant thought.

“Are you well, Adeline?”

The being’s voice was soft and concerned and she quickly responded to reassure it. “Yes, I am. Thank you. So…what now?”

The creature thought for a moment, a silence ensuing as it did. All she heard was the waves, almost distantly, and she found it odd she could still hear them inside the soul gem. It was soothing, however, and she contented herself with listening to them before the being spoke again. 

“Well, I can give you a body. I am a skilled necromancer, so I’m sure I can sculpt a body for your soul to inhabit. The thing is, it is easier for me to make the forms I know best and I am not certain what you look like. Or at least, what your previous body looked like.”

That question, uttered with so much apprehension, stirred something in Adeline. Something raw and painful, that she had tried to suppress since childhood. Still, it was so internalized that she couldn’t stop it from boiling to the surface. She would have cried, were it she was still capable of spilling tears.

“It doesn’t matter, kind sir. My body had little use, except for my blood. At least, that was what I was always told…”

The creature stared at her, clearly stunned for a moment, only to then chuckle. “Well, the ones who told you that must have been some bitter people. Fear not, Adeline. I will sculpt you a new husk to the best of my abilities.”

His kindness took her aback, but somewhere inside, the Blood Saint could feel a tinge of warmth. This being, this man she assumed, was as kind as the stranger whom had offered her brain fluid. The two of them were the only ones who had ever treated her with any semblance of respect or compassion and it elated and broke her heart at the same time.

She sensed how he put the soul gem down beside him. He started to work on…something, a project that she couldn’t see. Soon, there was only the sound of his hands shaping an unknown substance and the soft whispers of the waves in the distance.

Even now, she wondered. Who was this person? The one who had just saved her soul and was now working on some unseen pursuit. A man, she got that much from the voice, but what kind of man? He seemed to bear no ill will to her, even promised to give her a corporal form, but that was a promise that seemed almost too great to keep? Just who was he, to make it so easily?

Adeline quietly took in this quiet for a while before daring to inquire. “I have not asked before, but… Who are you? I couldn’t imagine anyone who could build a living, breathing body except for the Gods…”

A chuckle was her answer. “Well, I am a God. Or at least, what passes for it to some. I am Orgnum, King of Pyandonea and the Maormer, Sea Elves in the common tongue. Some call me the Serpent God of the Satakal. Not entirely true, but it is what lends me my strength and immortality.”

The Blood Saint listened to this explanation, but she found herself growing dizzy trying to understand. “I am afraid all these things say nothing to me.”

He laughed. “Oh, that’s alright. The history of my kind is obscure to many people in Tamriel, let alone to people who are not even from this world. I wouldn’t expect you to know.”

“What do you mean, not from this world?”

She heard him set aside a tool. “You are not the first strange being I have come upon as I meditate and send my conscious elsewhere. This place we live in, it’s vast and strange. There is a universe beyond it, endless stretching towards…the Gods, afterlife, nothingness, who can say? When a world perishes, sometimes its remnants are flung away and they may take root elsewhere, either birthing or contributing to a new existence.”

This concept of the unknown struck a chord with her. “That is much like what I was taught at the Healing Church, yes. They often spoke about the cosmos. About grand things that humankind couldn’t perceive, far beyond out power.”

There was a short silence and she hazarded a question that she couldn’t let go. “What do you look like? What does a Maormer look like?”

She could feel Orgnum’s eyes on her, snickering. “I suppose the easiest way to describe any Mer, or Elf, to a human is that they're human-like but with more delicate features and pointy ears. The Maormer have white eyes and pale skin and they’re different for other Mer races, like Altmer, Bosmer and Dunmer who have their own unique colors. But enough about me. I’m more curious about you. Could you tell me more about this…Healing Church?”

His question, curious and eager, surprised her a little. What was the last time someone actually wanted her to speak? What was the last time someone didn’t want her to quietly stand in a corner, preferably not seen and definitely not heard? She should be happy, but instead, she automatically pulled back.

“Oh, I am certain you wouldn’t want me to bother you with such tedious things, Lord Orgnum.”

She heard him chuckle. “No, I insist. Do tell me about where you’re from. I’d love to hear about some strange place I’ve never seen before.”

Encouraged by his kind words, she started to talk. She told him all about Yharnam and the college of Byrgenwerth. About the old civilization of the Pthumerians they found there, as well as the signs of the Gods and the Old Blood. About how Laurence broke away to found the Healing Church. 

Then, she told him about her own part of it. How she had been chosen at a young age to become a Blood Saint and taken away from her family to be prepared for that purpose. About her harsh training and all the suffering she had witnessed while administering her special blood to the poor, destitute and afflicted. Yet most of all, she spoke about her volunteering to become a test subject and the brutal experiments she had suffered.

Looking back on it now, she didn’t know just how she had weathered it. How she actually pulled through all the pain and the humiliation. And for what? Ascension? A revelation? Far away now from the constant demands of the Healing Church, she realized now that it had brought her nothing. Nothing except slowly fading away, here on the edge of worlds.

That and the sound of the ocean, endless dripping of a world underwater.

“It sounds like you have had a difficult life.”

She chuckled awkwardly at the god’s statement. “That certainly is one way to describe it. So what is your story, Lord Orgnum, if I may ask? Are Gods born or have they always existed?”

The man laughed. “It depends on the God, I suppose. Me, I learned to draw my strength from the primordial serpent when I started practicing sorcery. We call it and its brethren Satakal, though some instead call it Alduin and say it’s a dragon instead. Either way, it gives me dominion over its brethren in the water. Which, I must admit, I have not always used for the right reasons.”

Eager for the story to continue, she questioned him further. “How so, my Lord?”

“I have not always lived on Pyandonea. Originally, I came from a continent named Aldmeris. I was a nobleman there, had everything my heart desired. Then I became a mage and my power grew. Yet, in the arrogance of youth, I wanted more. So I rebelled against those ruling and I was soon banished along with those who fought for my cause. They banished us to a continent full of swamplands and rainforests, then surrounded it with a veil of mist so we might never find Aldmeris again.”

Adeline listened to him in silence. So he too knew what it was like to be drunk of desire. To aspire to something far beyond him. And he too fell hard and paid the price. A small sigh escaped her lips. She understood him well enough.

“So you too know what it means to reach for the impossible…”

“Indeed. Yet I didn’t learn from my failure. Even if I could no longer reach Aldmeris, I still struck my old brethren on their sister island, the Summerset Isles. Besides power, I now wanted revenge. Three times did I try. First I ravaged the coastlines of the Isles and led the charge myself, but we were unable to break through. The second time, I tried to gain a foothold through guile, but that too fell through. And the third time…”

“What happened the third time?”

“By then, I had grown so bitter that I no longer settled for revenge against the Altmer. I wanted to subjugate the entire Empire they were now a part of. All of Tamriel. I made a deal with a queen named Potema, a beautiful but disturbed woman and together, we would overthrow the Emperor. She would have her crown, I would have my revenge.”

“Yet it didn’t come to pass…”

“Indeed it did not. The Emperor banded with my enemies and their greatest mages. As we stormed the Summerset Isles, their armada was waiting and the mages conjured such storms that we couldn’t even reach the shore. Thousands of Maormer perished that day and I never again attempted another invasion.”

All the Blood Saint could do was listen to this tale of war and vengeance. There, in her soul gem, it was almost like she could see the tale he told her. She imagined rough seas and arcane storms. She saw how ships were smashed apart, how lifeless, blood-drenched bodies slipped into the sea… Her heart ached at the senseless loss of it all and her response reflected it.

“So…what happened to your kind after that?”

She could almost feel him smile. “I returned to Pyandonea and contemplated my losses. I meditated on what to do. So many people had lost their lives because of my wants, had to pay for my desires. And all I had given them to show for it was promises. Promises of leaving the continent and going somewhere better. That the grass was always greener somewhere else. I had held on to anger and it was poisoning not just me but my people.”

She could feel his hands continue crafting. “I realized that instead of looking to destroy others, I should create. I focused on Pyandonea and its wellbeing, made it beautiful and inhabitable. Made it a place where the Maormer could live in peace. It is a better realm now and I would say I’m a better person for it. I am content in what I have achieved. I suppose I grew wiser with age, even if it took far longer than it should. And while I think it will take a long time to forge friendly ties with Tamriel again, perhaps that can one day be achieved.”

A twinge of sadness spread in her chest at hearing him talk like that. He seemed so happy talking about his homeland, so at peace with himself. His voice indicated both wisdom and age and a sense of calmness she so longed for herself. The God had the time and luck to stop chasing ghosts before it was too late. For her, however, that chance had long flown. 

It appeared he noticed her sorrow and his voice was gentle. “Do not give up hope, Adeline. Your chance at fulfillment may yet still come. Even now, surely you must still dream of something grand.”

The Blood Saint would have blushed if she still had a form. He was right, of course. Even in death, especially now her soul was being preserved, she was not entirely cleansed of human desire. She indeed still desired something. The same thing she had desired back in the Research Hall.

“The ocean… I dream of the sea. To uncover the secrets underneath the surface. To feel one with the water and the great forces that live in it.”

He chuckled and for a moment, she wondered if he was mocking her. Yet derisive words never came. Instead, she could feel him rise and circle around something. She heard him let out a few appreciative noises, while his hands occasionally adjusted something. After a while, he turned to her and his voice sounded both excited and a little hesitant. 

“The body is ready. I shall now implant your soul and after that, you will wake up. My magic is at its limits. If I am to pull you out of this place, the furthest I can take you is the Eastmarch Hold in Skyrim, on the mainland of Tamriel. Yet if you would like, I could send a ship from Pyandonea and you could visit my lands.”

His offer stunned her. Had she truly left such an impression on him that he would in fact be willing to meet her again? She could hardly believe it, her lack of self-worth refused to believe it. Yet after all she had gone through, how sinful was it to have a little more faith? She responded, with more eagerness and excitement than she had felt in years. 

“Yes… Yes, I would like that very much…”

She then felt how he picked up the soul gem and walked towards what she assumed to be her new body. Almost instantly, she could feel a strange attraction towards it, as if her very soul longed to be encased in flesh once more. She didn’t fight this urge. After her chance meeting with Orgnum, she was ready to live again.

She heard the Maormer chant a strange incantation and suddenly, she could feel herself leave her crystal case. A pleasant warmth enveloped her and she could feel fatigue coming over her. She let it and as she dozed off, she heard how her savior send her off with comforting words. 

“Sleep now, Adeline of Yharnam. I greatly enjoyed our unexpected meeting. Yet until we meet again, rest. Slumber and dream of the sea…”

“Hey? Hey, are you alright?”

Adeline’s eyelids fluttered and she squirmed a little as she felt someone pull on her shoulder. On instinct, she reached up in an effort to push it away, only to then quickly realize that she could actually do such a thing at all. The notion made her snap her eyes wide open, desperate to see just what was going on.

The very first thing she saw was a pale hand. One that seemed attached to her, as it responded to her silent commands to flex or close into a fist. That meant she had her body back. Clearly, Orgnum had actually kept his word. That or was she still dreaming?

She then focused on the source of the voice. Hovering above her was an odd-looking woman, with tan skin, green eyes and pronounced, pointy ears. An Elf, based on what she now knew. 

Processing the woman’s question, she smiled. “Yes, I am quite alright. Thank you for your concern.”

Instantly, she was met with a frown. “Are you certain? We found you outside the city on the docks, naked and unconscious. What happened to you? Were you robbed? Were it the Nords?”

Adeline tried to sit up, despite the woman’s protests. She noticed she was wearing rough spun tunic and was lying on a bed. She was in a house of sorts, but it wasn’t any place she recognized. She once again caught the woman’s concerned look and tried her best to reassure her.

“No, I wasn’t attacked. I…I am not quite sure how I ended up here. Surely, I must have been under a spell of some kind…”

That was honestly the best explanation she could think of. After all this talk she had in the void of magic, surely that was the best explanation of how she got here. The woman stared at her for a moment, then seemingly accepted her statement without protest.

“Very well then. Would you like to come downstairs though? Ambarys can give you some food and drink.”

A sudden growl from her stomach answered that question for her. She accepted the woman’s assistance as she helped her up and allowed her to lead her downstairs. It was there that she finally recognized the place as an inn. There were a few people in it, all similar to the woman who was with her, though all except one other had gray skin and red eyes. 

A man behind the bar looked at them and grinned. “Ah Brelas, is the girl back in the land of the living? Should we set up a neighborhood watch to find the rotten Nords who did this?”

Brelas, as her name apparently was, shook her head. “She says she wasn’t attacked by anyone, Ambarys. That she got here by some kind of entrancing magic.”

The innkeeper almost seemed disappointed. “Well, she might just be in shock. I’m sure she’ll remember more later.”

He then turned to Adeline, smiling. “It’s good to see you up, sera. Could I offer you some food and drink?”

The Blood Saint shook her head. “That’s very kind of you, though I should point out I have no money.”

Ambarys laughed. “No charge. I’m merely helping someone in need. Please, I insist.”

As her stomach once again made noise, she decided that was all the encouragement she needed. She sat down at the counter and happily accepted the dish set before her. She had no idea what it was, but it tasted good enough for her not to question it. It had been years since she had actually eaten solid food and what was once the acquired thirst was brain fluid was now a foul lingering taste on her tongue. 

After a few bites, the innkeeper spoke again. “So, what’s your name?”

“Adeline, sir.”

“Adeline, huh? Unusual name…”

She quietly raised her eyebrows, surprised at that statement but not questioning it as the man asked his next question. “So, what brings you to Tamriel? Did your king sent you?”

The Blood Saint blinked and looked at him. “My king?”

“Yes, your wizard king in Pyandonea. There has to be some reason for you to return here after so long. No one here has seen a Maormer in ages.”

Maormer… Sea Elf. That was what Orgnum said he was, in what was definitely not just a dream. Pyandonea is where he said he came from. Still, why would he call her all of those things? It was only then that she noticed her reflection in the tankard she drank from and she froze.

Looking back at her was not the pale, mousy and plain girl who was made a Blood Saint all those years ago. Instead, what she saw was a body much closer to that of her hosts. Yet where their skin was tan or gray, hers was colorless. Her eyes were white and clear as opposed to their green or red irises. Her features were slim and delicate, with long silver hair framing them, high cheekbones, full lips and straight nose.

Adeline couldn’t look away from the sight, distorted in the dull metal. She looked nothing like her old self anywhere. The body Orgnum had given her wasn’t the human form she had hoped to ascend from. Instead, he had given her a body of one of his kind. She was an Elf now, transformed beyond recognition into a new existence.

She was beautiful.

Out of nowhere, an immense sense of giddiness came over her. A deep sense of comfort and self-worth she had not felt in a long time. She felt whole and that was a feeling that couldn’t be put into words. Then and there, she could feel tears threatening to form and she fought to choke a sob in the back of her throat. This was not a dream, but it was better than any revelation she’d ever experienced.

It was there she realized that Ambarys and Brelas were still watching her. They were watching her in confusion, clearly still waiting for an answer. She was far too happy to feel discomfort at it. Brimming with confidence at her new state of being, Adeline the Maormer did what the Blood Saint never could have done. She quickly and convincingly devised a lie. 

“I got lost while sailing the seas around Pyandonea. There was a storm and I got swept out here due to some spell gone wrong. Don’t be too worried for me. My brethren will send a ship for me.”

She could see how the two Elves looked at each other in astonishment, before Brelas snickered. “A Sea Elf ship in Windhelm? Now that I would like to see.”

Adeline could hear the skepticism in that answer. It mattered nothing to her. She knew the truth. She knew what awaited her in this brave new world. She had her place in it and she was afraid of nothing anymore. So instead, she laughed right along and beamed.

“Oh yes, you will. You certainly will.”

Thus, for the next month and a half, a Sea Elf lingered in the city of Windhelm, waiting for her new brethren to arrive. Once she had recovered properly, she set about exploring it, wanting to make up her debt to Ambarys and Brelas, as well as properly prepare for her impending voyage. She would do this by gathering herbs and fishing at the docks, as well as scavenging nearby ruins. She would sell what she found and soon managed to make a modest living to cover her stay.

Needless to say, her presence didn’t go unnoticed for long. Word about a Sea Elf staying at Ambarys’s New Gnisis Cornerclub quickly spread and soon, the place was packed with people who simply wanted to have a look at her. At one point, she even got invited for dinner by the Jarl and basically received a free meal for a few hours of serving as a curiosity. 

Not all of the people seeing were friendly either. While the elves and Argonians on the docks were simply motivated by friendly curiosity, Adeline quickly learned the local humans didn’t like elves much and the idea of a new kind of elf being in their city rubbed them the wrong way. Nearly every day, she was confronted with questions about whether she was a spy or her kind planned an invasion of some sort. Their anger and suspicion hurt her, especially since she was human once, but seeing what she knew of Maormer history it wasn’t unjust. She simply tried her best to remain polite and emphasized that her stay in this city was only temporary. 

At night, she would count the time passing by and at daytime, she would sit at the docks and longingly gaze down the inlet to where it led out to sea. Soon, she told herself. Soon, she would be out there and she would go on the adventure of a lifetime. If she had the strength and patience to weather her life in Yharnam, then this mundane existence in a cold city was nothing. 

Then, after what seemed far too long, it happened. She was at the marketplace, selling some armor she had found outside the city, when Malborn, another regular of the New Gnisis Cornerclub, came running up to her. He looked as if he had seen a ghost, his voice brimming with shock and excitement. 

“Adeline, a ship pulled up in the harbor. A Maormer ship! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The moment he said it, Adeline could feel her heart skip a beat. Without thinking, she turned to the person behind the stand. She put her stuff on the stand and told her to keep it, free of charge. She didn’t need it anymore.

She turned to Malborn and smiled. “I think they are here for me.”

By the time she got to the docks, a large crowd had already gathered. As she squirmed her way through, she could see why. The Maormer ship was indeed something to behold. It almost seemed like an insect sailing across water, with a hull that resembled chitin and sails so thin and translucent they seemed to be made out of membrane. A strange flag proudly waved from its highest mast, no doubt bearing the crest of their king. 

Soon, the ship had anchored and several people stepped onto the quay. They looked exactly like her, with the same white eyes and colorless skin. They too picked her out of the crowd rather easily and one of them stepped up to her. He looked her over with a smile. 

“You must be Adeline. King Orgnum sends for you.”

A deep sense of elation came over her upon hearing those words. It looked like the supposed Serpent God had indeed kept his word. For her, for the lost, bereft soul of a lowly Blood Saint whom he had made into something else. A smile spread onto her face and she held her head high.

“Well, I am ready to head home.”

The Sea Elf smiled. “Good, we will quickly gather some supplies and head off tomorrow. We have a long way to go to Pyandonea.”

The crew of the ship definitely held true to that claim. With the efficiency of trained seamen, and her guiding them through Windhelm, they had soon gathered everything they needed and loaded it onto the ship. Within less than a day, their ship was properly repaired and supplies were stored and after a night spent at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, they were ready to set sail once more.

Adeline bid her Elven friends goodbye before they did, making certain to leave them with ample gifts for their kindness of taking her in. She was honest in saying that she might not see them in this lifetime, but that she had valued their time together and that she would never forget them. They returned the sentiment and after exchanging greetings one final time, she got onto the ship, where the anchor was pulled up and they started to sail away. 

Soon, they were gliding across the unruly waves and Windhelm was nothing more than a speck in the distance. Yet Adeline noticed that safe for the good people she’d come to know, there was very little sadness in her heart. If anything, she was completely overtaken with excitement. 

She noticed with glee how little the unsteady floor of the ship bothered her, how strong her footing felt. How the rushing sound of the water flowed in tandem with the rushing of her own blood, the spray of it cool against her face. It called for her, just like it had done in the Research Hall, and now, she happily answered. 

She cast a sideward glance at her fellow Maormer. They seemed to watch her with both caution and amusement, both surprised and easy to see how well she took to everything. No doubt Orgnum had told them her tale, but as far as she was concerned, they needn’t worry. They were her people now and like it was for them, the sea would be her home. 

She no longer had to dream of it now. The secrets hidden underneath the watery surface, the ones she had reached for so desperately. They would be hers to know, hers to command. Here, reborn in this strange world, ascended to a different form, she was finally what she wanted to be. 

No longer did she need to simply dream of the ocean. She was one with it now and out there, in Pyandonea, a new and dignified life awaited.


	9. Fortune's Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon's luck takes a turn for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We reached the halfway mark. I can't believe it either. This was easily one of my favorite chapters to write.

“Please, bring to an end the horror. So our forefathers sinned? We Hunters cannot bear their weight forever. It’s not fair, it just isn’t fair…”

Simon tried to clutch the hand of the young Hunter, but strength eluded him. It didn’t surprise him. He was dying and he likely only had seconds left to live before he would succumb to his wounds. 

He’d come this far in finding the secret, in exposing the Healing Church for the rotten zealots they were. How fitting would it have been if he actually managed? That one of the finest and most legendary old Hunters the Church had produced would lead to their downfall? It would have been justice and perhaps, granted him some manner of peace, redeemed him of past deeds.

Unfortunately, it was not meant to be. The wretched Church had not left its secrets unprotected. Soon, he had been hounded by one of their assassins and the man had been as relentless as he were violent. 

Three times had the assassin assailed him and three times had he fought them off. He lived thanks to his speed and wits, but it was clear the assassin didn’t need to land a killing blow to end them. His weapon still drew enough blood to severely wound him and now, Simon was about to succumb.

Knowing he could no longer go on, he turned to this Hunter. This stubborn youth who had somehow wandered in here with his sanity intact. He urged him to find the secret in his stead and to end the source of the Nightmare, so it may free the hapless souls trapped inside. 

He loathed that it had come to that. Frankly, he was certain the lad would be killed long before he even reached the heart of the Fishing Hamlet. Again and again until he either broke or turned back. Yet what choice did he have? The darkness was coming now and the pain started to dull as he began to grow cold.

“Well, you got yourself into a fine mess.”

The voice that sounded through the darkness ran clear in his ears. It prodded him into a state of alertness, one he didn’t think his dying body would be capable of. He looked around, every one of his senses poised. Had the assassin came back to finish the job?

“Who is that?”

A laugh was what he got in return. “Well, you won’t be able to see me with those silly bandages on your face, now will you? Here, let me get rid of those…”

Simon practically jumped as he suddenly felt a pair of large, rough hands on his face. He tried to jerk back and bat them away, but they held firm. They found the knots of the bandages and easily undid them, then gently tugged them to take them off his head. The Hunter blinked in response, his eyes adjusting to light for the first time in years.

“There, much better. How did you even get around with those covering your eyes?”

Once he had adjusted, Simon cautiously regarded the man. He was of average height with dark hair, skin and eyes. He was definitely not a Hunter, its build more common of a soldier, the kind that preferred swords and shields over firearms. He always smiled at the thought. If that was true, he liked the man.

Even so, he’d rather know who he was. “What is your name? Who are you and why are you here?”

The man smiled. “Call me Sai. I’m what you would call a God. And I’m here because I think you might like my help.”

Almost instantly, Simon felt a wry chuckle escape his mouth. So _now_ the Gods were suddenly interested in his sorrows… He grinned at the man, mockingly so and not ashamed of it. 

“I think I’m too far gone for the Gods to help me now.”

Sai, however, simply grinned in return. “Well, that depends on the kind of God and what it has to offer you. So let us go over your situation, shall we?”

He sat back, comfortably so, and took out what seemed like a book of sorts. “So you are Simon, a Hunter of Beasts. Or at least, people who become beasts. You were a part of the Church trying to eradicate them, considered it your calling to follow in the footsteps of great men like Ludwig the Holy Blade. Except, you found out they were the source of it all. And let’s just say that your quest to expose them ended prematurely…”

Hearing his story narrated in such a casual tone made the Hunter’s blood boil. Couldn’t the man at least leave him a little dignity after his death? He glared him, ready to wring his neck then and there, but Sai seemed unfazed.

“Fear not, Simon. The Hunter you implored to go in your stead will succeed. Both the Dream and Nightmare will end and Yharnam will enter a new age. Your death, while lamentable, will not be in vain.”

This time, the Hunter had no answer. All words fled from his mind and he looked at the God’s face to detect any sign of jest. Yet Sai’s expression didn’t change and he got the creeping suspicion that he was in fact telling the truth. A soft sigh of relief passed his lips. At least he could be at peace after death. And speaking of that…

“I may not have died for nothing then, but I am still dead. So I do not see how you can help me with anything.”

Sai leaned back, comfortably crossing his legs. “Well, when the Hunter’s Nightmare perishes, so will the souls trapped in it. Including yours. You could pass on, but there is another place you could go to. One without the Healing Church and its corruption.”

Simon frowned. “You can return people to life?” 

A smirk spread across his face. “I can transfer your soul from one existence to another, yes, but I can also give you something even better. I can give you luck.”

The Hunter stared at him, stunned. “Luck?”

“I am a God of Luck. I can put the odds in someone’s favor, either for a long or a short time. Well, a long time is usually not a great idea, but often, a little luck can already go a long way.”

Simon listened to the God as he talked, deeply in thought. He could definitely use some luck. Anyone who had died because of their own mistakes could. Still, at what cost would that small measure come? He turned to Sai, a skeptical edge to his voice.

“Nothing is ever for free. What would you want in exchange for your blessing?”

The God laughed. “Oh, you are a smart one, Hunter. Indeed, there is something I ask of you. Luck is a powerful force that can be multiplied by spreading it. It is a task I don’t always wish to have to do alone, so all I ask you is for you to help others you meet on your way.”

The Hunter thought for a moment. Help others in exchange for a second chance at life. That sounded fair enough. After all, had he not decided to expose the Healing Church to help people in the first place? 

Besides, he didn’t want to remain here, lingering in a Nightmare that would soon collapse, or returning to a burning Yharnam. He wanted to see a beautiful, living world again. He wanted to find it in him to look upon it and smile once more. Above all, he wanted to live. That last one was more important than anything else.

He nodded, signifying his assent. “Very well, God of Luck. I accept your bargain. Take me from this place, so I might start over.”

Sai smirked. “Very well, Simon. I shall grant your wish. You will have your chance to begin anew, with a small bit of luck to help you on your way.”

Hardly had the God said that or suddenly, a light appeared. Like a ray of sun through crack in the ceiling, widened by the roof collapsing. Soon, it grew larger and wider, until eventually it engulfed the both of them. Whatever pain Simon still felt from his wounds vanished and he felt as if his very soul pulled away, ascending to a place beyond this mire. 

The sensation soon overwhelmed him and he obeyed the calling of the light without question. He rose, bathing in the comforting glow, instinctively following the path it set out in front of him. He took it and as the brightness overwhelmed him, the last he heard was Sai’s voice, ever amused. 

“Farewell, Simon, my friend. Happy hunting. Or not. I suppose you might be sick of that by now.”

The next time the Harrowed Hunter opened his eyes, he was no longer in the Nightmare. Instead, he found himself looking up at a beautiful blue sky with white clouds. Warm rays of sunlight shone down on him and he could spy the vague outline of two large moons. As he looked all around him, he saw beautiful green forests stretching as far as he could see. 

The sight of it delighted him and he eagerly got to his feet to admire the view. Or at least, he would have, were it not for some glaringly obvious issue. It took but a small breeze for him to realize it and it wasn’t long before he was curled in a ball, shivering. 

Simon cursed under his breath. He should have known Sai’s offer was too good to be true. Here he was, out in the middle of nowhere, naked as the day he was born and without even a weapon. And the Gods knew what was in these woods. How on earth was he lucky in this state?

Still, understanding that staying here would be suicide, he grumbled and got up. He started to move, in no particular direction, slowly as not to hurt himself on the terrain. He was glad his habit of going barefoot had callused his feet and the rough forest ground didn’t hurt him too much. That was something at least… All he could hope for was that he would soon find something to cover himself with and that this place didn’t have any poison ivy…

“Alright, hand over your valuables or I’ll gut you like a fish!”

The Hunter practically jumped as he suddenly heard a voice behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and he could feel his heart sink. The first thing he saw was a sharp dagger. The second thing was a hooded figure that was definitely a thief, whose voice indicated he was already in a bad mood.

It was the strangest thief he’d ever seen too. While it walked and talked like a human, it looked more like a reptile or the saurians he had seen in books, with green scales all over and a leathery tail. Not that it mattered. It looked like he was ready to knife him then and there, even if just out of frustration. The spiel about luck now truly seemed like a lie: he saw no idea how it could get any worse. 

He sighed, staring at the lizard man. “Do I _look_ like I have anything?”

There was a short silence between them. He saw how the thief looked him up and down, eyes widening. It was clear that his predicament got through to him only now and suddenly, the atmosphere turned very awkward. After a few tense minutes, the thief put his weapon away, looking at him as if he had grown another head.

“No. No, you don’t. What on earth happened to you?”

Simon again let out a sigh. “It’s very hard to explain, but it involves extreme misfortune.”

A wry smile, or what passed for it, was his answer as the thief clearly didn’t want to know any more. “I can imagine that.”

He reached into a satchel and from it, he pulled some simple garments and old, dirty boots, throwing it as the Hunter’s feet. “Here, have some clothes, land-strider. And I sure hope you have better luck in the future.”

Then, as swiftly as he came, the thief left again. He disappeared amidst the foliage and Simon was once again left alone. He was grateful for that, but he was even more elated when he turned to the small heap of clothes. They were a loose fit and the boots were old with the leather cracking somewhat, but it didn’t matter to him at all. At least he had some protection from the elements now.

He chuckled. Perhaps there was a little scrap of luck thrown his way after all.

That little sliver of confidence made him move and his trek was a lot faster now he didn’t have to avoid any rough terrain. He casually clambered over rocks and pushed his way through shrubberies. Meanwhile, he kept looking around for any signs of civilization, hoping to perhaps find some place to sate the hunger and thirst that started to rear their ugly head. 

After walking for perhaps an hour or so, he saw the first good omen. A road made of dirt and stone, indicating that there might be a city or town if he followed it either way. That thought got him excited. Things continued to look up indeed. 

As he stepped onto it and wandered down the path for a while, he saw something. A large creature, waiting. A dog, it seemed, sitting by the side of the road. Again, he felt caution grip him. He had been fond of dogs, once upon a time. Yet after the curse descended on Yharnam, he’d become extremely cautious of them, especially after seeing the grotesque forms they took on in the Hunter’s Nightmare. As such and with nothing to protect him, he approached carefully.

As he got closer, he realized he recognized the breed. An Irish Wolfhound, the same breed the citizens of Yharnam often used during the Hunt. A sad smile came to his face. He’d owned one himself when he was still a Hunter of the Healing Church, a beautiful creature whom he had named Jekyll, after one of his favorite books. The animal had been his loyal companion on many Hunts, but eventually it succumbed to the plague of beasthood. He’d been forced to put him down in self-defense and he had wept that night, marking the start of his doubts about the people he served. 

This dog reminded him of his deceased companion, painfully so, and despite his misgivings, he approached. The animal noticed him immediately and instantly run up. It barked at him, but he could tell that it wasn’t aggressive. Instead, it sounded urgent and nervous and the jittery way the animal moved seemed to indicate that it wanted him to follow it. 

Simon saw no reason why he shouldn’t. The animal wasn’t hostile, making it very likely it belonged to someone. Perhaps it could lead him to its owner. Someone who might be able to give him some directions in this strange place he ended up in. 

Indeed, after a few moments of jogging after the dog, he could see a house of some kind. The animal went inside as they reached the door and he went in after it. He looked around, only for his face to fall. On the right side of the house, there was a man on the bed. From one look at him, he knew he wasn’t sleeping. 

He turned to the dog, feeling more dejected than before. “Oh, you lost your owner?”

The animal whined in response, but didn’t seem to object to his presence here. Simon approached the bed and closed the dead man’s eyes. He carefully pulled out the blanket out from underneath it and lay it over him. Seeing his own horrid death in the nightmare, he couldn’t bear to leave the body lying here without a shred of dignity even if he didn’t have the means for a proper burial. He quietly performed some rites over it, the ones he’d learned before he came to Yharnam, and he could only hope they were the right ones for this man.

Once he was done, his attention was drawn to a small table at the end of the bed. He spied a small, leather book on it and curiously, he picked it up. There was only one written page in it and he started reading. 

“Well, after all my years living in these woods, it looks like the Rockjoint will finally be the end of me. I guess that's fine. All my friends are long dead. The only one left is poor Meeko. He was always a loyal companion, and I know he'll be able to take care of himself. I hope someday I'll see him again.”

A soft sigh left his mouth and he looked back at the dog. “So your name is Meeko… It looks like you’re as alone in this world as I am...”

He quietly put the journal back down and looked back around the cabin again. It had a decent amount of food in it, most of it still fresh… He loathed the idea of stealing from anyone, even a man who was long gone. Still, it was not like he was going to use it anymore and Simon needed it far more than him. He turned back to the corpse and apologized, then quickly gathered some of the food and ate some. He hesitated for a moment when he found an iron dagger, but eventually put it on his belt. He’d feel a lot safer with something to protect himself with.

After he was done, he turned to Meeko again. The dog lay down on the mat, looking at him with a sad, forlorn expression. He looked lost, apparently aware that his master was gone and expecting this new human to leave again soon. 

Simon looked the animal over. He was clearly a sweet dog, having obviously been a beloved companion of his former owner. And again, he reminded him very much of his beloved Jekyll… Regardless of his own precarious position, he couldn’t bear to leave him here… 

The Hunter smiled, crouching down. “Do you want to come with me? I don’t have much to give you, but I wouldn’t mind some company.”

Instantly, Meeko’s entire body language changed. The wolfhound perked up and barked happily. He got to his feet and started to lick his face, tail wagging wildly. Clearly, he understood he had a new master now and seemed very happy with the prospect. Simon happily petted him and then turned to the bed one last time, speaking to the man under the sheet.

“Please forgive me, I only took out of necessity. And worry not about Meeko. I shall look after him in your stead.” 

With those words, he got up and left the cabin, with the dog following him out. Soon, the two of them were on the road again and they started to walk along it. Truth be told, Simon felt a lot better now about where it might lead. He was clothed, had food and a small measure of defense. More importantly, he was no longer alone. 

Meeko quickly proved to be a fine companion. He was a loyal beast that followed without asking and responded to a great many commands. He even proved to be quite fierce as well as he didn’t hesitate to charge at a pack of wolves that threatened to harass them. Again, Simon had the idea that things were indeed improving.

That sense of positivity only increased when, at last, the endless forests ceased to be and he swore he could see stone and straw roofs in the distance. Excited at the prospect of a town, he told Meeko to follow him as he increased his pace. By now, the sun was slowly going down and he liked the idea of a safe haven before nightfall.

When he reached the town, he saw it was quite small. It only consisted of a handful of houses and a scarce few people were out and about. He approached the nearest person to ask about any place to spend the night and he was relieved to find that the place indeed had an inn. It took him only a few moments to find it and he and Meeko happily went inside to find some shelter. 

The warmth of the place was inviting and he set himself at a small bench in the far corner. After a while, he walked up to the large brazier, frying some of the tomatoes and a pheasant breast he’d taken from Meeko’s old home. He was sure to share the meat with his new friend, wishing he had a bit more to offer him. Especially when the owner of the inn came over and asked if there was anything he wanted to have.

He was about to decline, stating he didn’t have any money and simply wanted to sleep on one of the benches. Yet as he said that, someone else perked up. Two women in armor, who seemed to be a couple much to his surprise, called over to the innkeeper and told her to give him a room, a drink and some food on their tap. Surprised by this sudden act of generosity, his eyes widened and he stumbled over his words to give them thanks. They simply smiled, told him not to mention it and to have a safe journey to wherever he was headed, before engaging in merriment with what seemed to be the rest of their party.

In the end, Simon decided to chalk it all up to luck, something he finally started to believe in. He gratefully ate the generous plate of food he was given and made sure to give a large portion of the meat to his equally grateful dog. He happily sipped on the bottle of mead provided to him, enjoying the sweet taste and occupied his remaining time with pondering about his options. 

First of all, he needed money. That would enable him to look after his own needs in the future, without relying on the kindness of strangers. For that, he’d need work ad he figured the innkeeper might be able to tell him where in this world he could find that. She would likely also be able to tell him more about this area and give him a map, so he wouldn’t be wandering aimlessly. 

He smiled. It was a solid plan, but it could wait until tomorrow. Right now, he was tired and he and Meeko could use a sleep. As such, the two of them walked over the women, once again thanking them for their generosity and wishing them a fine evening. Then they headed to their room, where Simon crawled into the bed and Meeko made himself comfortable on a bear rug. The Hunter dozed off almost immediately, sleeping like a baby for the first time in years.

In fact, he was so vast asleep that he initially barely noticed it when a cold, wet nose pushed against his face a few hours later. It took him several moments to register it and once he did, he feebly moved his hands and muttered for it to stop. Yet the pushing continued, along with claws scratching at his arm and a soft whine. It was insistent enough for him to stir awake and he found himself opening his eyes, looking at a frantic Meeko.

It was there he realized just where he was again and how he got there and he sat up with a grumble. “What is it, boy?”

The animal realized he had his attention now. Instantly, he ran to the door of their room, worked it open and stood frozen, a soft growl coming out of its mouth. Simon looked in the direction he was snarling at and while he couldn’t see anything, he got nervous. He knew better than to disregard the intuition of a dog.

Something was out there and it was likely dangerous. 

Within seconds, he was dressed and snatched his dagger off the nearby table. As he entered into the main hall, he grabbed a torch left by a patron and lit it in the brassier. He told Meeko to follow him outside, hoping that the dog was wrong despite everything. Either way, he wasn’t going to raise the alarm unless he saw something.

He cautiously stepped outside the inn with his companion in tow. The nightly cold had him shiver, but he nonetheless looked around. He could spy several torches in the distance of town guards patrolling the area. That was a good sign. If they weren’t on high alert, then maybe everything was fine.

Meeko, however, kept growling. He raised his head to the outskirts of town and approached it, hairs raised on his back. By now, Simon no longer had any doubts.

There was something bad out there. 

Barely had that thought crossed his mind or he suddenly felt a pair of hands grab him from behind. Instantly, he called out but a rough hand clamped over his mouth. He saw the flash of iron and it moved up to his throat far quicker than he could get his weapon to defend himself. 

Meeko, however, was even quicker. Without hesitation, the dog flung himself at his assailant. There were the beginnings of a scream and then the sound of tearing flesh and a rattle as he tore out the attacker’s throat with terrifying ease. The person, dressed in furs, was dead in the blink of an eye, but Simon didn’t get the time to be shocked when he spotted several more shadows moving in the dark.

Instinct overtook him that very moment. Spying a bow on the one that had attacked him, he rushed over and grabbed it, dropping the torch. He pulled off his quiver filled with arrows and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed one and put it on the string, then aimed at the nearest shadow and fired. 

The arrow struck home and he could see the shape fall to the ground, lifeless. He didn’t take long to think about it. Without thinking, he launched another arrow, firing projectiles at huge speed, claiming several more victims in the process. The light of the torch on the ground only provided limited light, but with his years of experience and trained ear, finding his targets wasn’t an impossible achievement. 

It only took a few more shots for the people in the shadows to realize he wasn’t some easily overpowered target. Out of nowhere, a loud war cry started to swell from the forest. A deafening clattering of weapons was heard and the thundering of many footsteps started to come from all sides. Instantly, Simon knew what was happening and started screaming on top of his lungs. 

“Ambush! The town is under attack! Ambush!”

His gambit worked. Instantly, the town’s guards came rushing towards him, weapons drawn, just as the first people started sprinting out of the darkness. He could see the look of shock on their faces as people in fur and hide clothes, wearing animal skulls and tribal paint, stormed towards the town like a tidal wave through the narrow passage between rocks and water, leaving them outnumbered and unprepared. 

He knew right there it was going to be a massacre. He’d seen too many hunts go down like this against a horde of beasts. So he acted quickly. A few town guards wouldn’t do. They needed a miracle. That and a man skilled with overwhelming odds. 

He yanked an extra sword off the belt of the nearest man, before snatching his quiver and shoving him away. “Give me those! Go! Find help! Get the citizens! I’ll hold them off! Go!”

Thankfully, the guards was too shocked to argue. They started running, no doubt to safety rather than doing anything useful. Not that it mattered to Simon. He had some hunting to do. 

Immediately, he started firing arrows again. He aimed them at any whose face he could already make out, being sure to target either the head or chest. Within moments, several of them were lying down, dead or being trampled by their comrades, buying him a few more seconds as his enemies were slowed down. 

One was faster than his arrows, but not nearly fast enough for his dog. Understanding that his master was in danger, Meeko descended upon her with primal fury and went for the jugular. Soon, she wasn’t moving anymore and when another one of the attackers ran at the animal to avenge her comrade, he gave her the exact same treatment. He then raised his head, blood on his maw, barking threateningly at anyone who came close. 

Their culling of the invaders’ ranks only seemed to make them even angrier. Besides chants of “for the Forsworn”, whatever that meant, others quickly formed from the crowd. They called for his blood and that of Meeko, shouting to their fellows to butcher them before anything else. The call was answered by bloodthirsty cheers and Simon smirked. If they were too busy with him, they wouldn’t be going after anyone else and to kill him, they first had to catch him.

If there was one thing he was good at, it was evading foes.

He called to his dog. “Meeko, to me!”

The animal responded immediately and ran with him as he started to look for higher ground. As he ran, he occasionally turned back around, firing at any of the attackers that threatened to catch up with them. One of them got close enough and the Hunter only barely had time to duck underneath the swing. He draw his sword and ran the man through, before yanking off the quiver on his back for more ammunition and continuing his retreat. 

He repeated this process several times, both for him and his dog, slashing at the aggressors coming in from all sides, when he saw it. A lumber mill with a relatively flat roof. He smiled, adrenaline rushing through his veins. That should help him stay alive a little longer. 

Whistling to Meeko, he sped towards it. He clambered up a nearby pile of logs, helping his companion up with him. Aided by hysterical strength, he managed to lift up the dog and push him onto the roof, before clambering up himself. As he did, he pushed off on the logs with all of his might, disturbing the pile and sending it crashing.

Screams rang out below him as several of the assailants were crushed under the weighty wood and instantly, more demands for his death arose. He practically grinned. He had the high ground and they had no ready way up to him. 

For the next few moments, he continued to unleash waves of arrows onto the invaders below. He rained death on them, with utter fury and contempt for them ramming the posts below in an effort to destabilize him. He and his dog ran back and forth to avoid arrows and throwing axes, merely responding to their owners with more projectiles of their own, including the axes. Some of them tried to climb up, using each other for a boost and were quickly met with a sword and canine teeth. 

Every new drawing of blood seemed to send these people into a further frenzy. By now, they started to shout in their own language, but he understood all the same. They weren’t going to rest until he was dead.

Eventually, Simon found himself running out of arrows. He could feel his muscles aching and he was starting to get a headache from the adrenaline. When he looked over at Meeko, he saw the animal was panting as well. He cursed as a throwing axe grazed his arm and he could already see new pairs of hands on the side of the roof, belonging to the invaders trying to pull themselves up. His stomach turned. He would be overrun very soon.

He grinned without humor. So that was how he was going to die again. Again slaughtered by someone in animal skin. That seemed to be a theme for him. At least this time, however, he wouldn’t go out whimpering. 

He clutched his sword as he readied himself for the people climbing up, meanwhile looking at Meeko. Perhaps he could push him to jump to the woodpile below and run for it. Even tired, he was much faster than a human. That way he didn’t have to die. If the dog survived, he was happy. As for him, at least he’d die with dignity this time. He gave it his all. There were worse ways to go. 

“Kill them all! For the Penitus Occulatus! For the Empire!”

The rallying call, shouted by a female voice, jerked him from his thoughts. Suddenly, sounds of panic were heard below, as well as the sound of a foreign force clashing with the invaders. He could hear steel cutting flesh, as if a giant metal machine was overrunning these tribal people. He listened in utmost astonishment. Looks like it wasn’t over after all.

With renewed strength, he started to cut down the few attackers that still made it onto the roof. Meeko was right there with him, mauling anyone who came too close. Soon, the two of them cleared the roof and meanwhile, the people below were clearing the village down to every last assailant. 

It took less than a few moments before the noise of warring had waned and silence returned to the town. Only then did Simon find the courage to put his own weapon down. He sank down on the uneven surface, panting madly, throwing an arm around his approaching dog as he quietly listened to the voice below.

A man spoke. “Where in Oblivion did these people come from?”

A woman’s voice, the one that had led the charge, responded. “Markarth, most likely. It seems not all of the Forsworn were willing to join the fire witches. At least these won’t bother us again.”

Another man huffed. “I get that, commander. But these didn’t come all the way from Markarth. They wouldn’t be able to lay a siege like this if they came that far.”

Another female voice pitched in. “They’re from Dragon Bridge Overlook, I’d wager. We got intel about a camp there, though no one got close. Though seeing the number of the people here, I suppose that place is cleared now.”

It was only then that they noticed him sitting on the roof. Instantly, the first man turned to others, strange soldiers and the town guards he’d sent away he realized, and ordered them to help him off the roof. They obeyed immediately and soon, he and Meeko once again stood on solid ground. 

In the light of the torches, Simon realized he recognized some of the people. Most of them belonged to that large party he saw at the inn. A few feet behind him, he even saw the female lovers who had so graciously provided him with food and bed earlier in the evening. He smiled upon seeing them again, though that smile faded as the man regarded him without a trace of emotion.

“You. What is your name?”

His tone was enough to make him answer immediately. “Simon, sir.”

He looked him over, seemingly confused by his manner of addressing him. “The city guards told us of a man with a bow and a dog holding off the horde until reinforcements would arrive. I assume that would be you.”

He wouldn’t even dare smile at the obviousness of his question. “You would be correct.”

He coolly looked him over. “We had no idea that these Forsworn planned an attack on Dragon Bridge. Were it not for your vigilance, they certainly would have overrun the guards and killed us in our sleep. We were lucky you chose to stay here for the night. Your stand against them bought us the time we needed for a proper counterattack.”

The Hunter didn’t respond to this. He wasn’t sure if he was simply narrating what had happened or planned to go anywhere with it. He certainly didn’t want to test him. He was fast and a talented archer, but he looked like a disciplined warrior that could kill him in a single stroke. 

Still, one word stuck out in his mind. “Lucky”. Again, there was an element of luck to the sequence of his time here, except now, he was the one who spread it to others. 

He watched how the man removed his helmet and he smiled. “I am Commander Maro of the Penitus Occulatos. You have done us all a great service, Simon. For that, we are grateful.” 

The man bowed his head and for a moment, the Hunter found himself speechless. Gratitude. What was the last time he had actually received that from anyone? As a Hunter of the Church, he’d been hated by the populace. When he tried to expose the Church, he’d been reviled as a whistleblower. He couldn’t remember the last time when someone seemed glad he was around.

He returned a shy smile of his own. “I did what was right, Commander. What had to be done to ensure everyone’s safety.”

His modesty made the Commander chuckle. “That bravery is not nearly as second nature to mankind as we’d like. When we report of this attack to Jarl Elisif and mention your part in it, she will be sure to reward you. Is there anything we should ask on your behalf?”

Simon’s hard skipped a beat at that. A reward? For him? Again it seemed fortune smiled upon him in grand ways.

His mind raced, wondering what he should ask. Money, perhaps? He could definitely use that. A position, if not one too elevated, that granted him social standing maybe? It would certainly help him in this world. Or perhaps a song written in his honor, just so his deeds wouldn’t be forgotten for once?

However, after a scarce few moments, he thought better of it. He didn’t want anything grand. No riches or power or glory. He’d seen where that kind of avarice led. It had been quite literally the death of him. No, what he truly wanted was far simpler. If anything, he should ask for the means to achieve that.

He turned to Commander Maro with a grin. “I think I have an idea of what I’d want, yes…”

The Commander of the Penitus Occulatus proved to be a man of his word. Simon could claim nothing else as he stood here, a few months later, enjoying the beautiful view of Dragon Bridge Overlook. According to the man, Elisif had frowned when he brought the Hunter’s request before her, surprised than anyone so heroic would ask for so little. 

Nonetheless, she had happily granted his request for a small plot of land and besides the Overlook, she had also sent him a decent sum of gold and the most beautiful black bow he’d ever seen. The material was called ebony, apparently, and it had proven a formidable and useful weapon, especially in his current occupation of sorts.

Behind him stood a small cottage. He’d lovingly built it out of wood and stone with the help of the thankful villagers of the town. They seemed surprised that he desired something so simple instead of a grand homestead, but for him, it was all he needed. He had a place to sleep, cook and wash as well as a station to practice his newfound passion of alchemy. Outside, he has a small patch to grow all kinds of crops and alchemy ingredients, preferably of the healing variety. He would often hunt for the rest of his food and this sense of self-sufficiency suited him well.

Every once in a while, he and his dog would head to Dragon Bridge with the surplus of his endeavors. He would sell the meat and vegetables to the inn and the potions, alchemical supplies and spoils of his hunts to whomever needed them, either in the town or to travelers to and from Solitude. When he was there for business, he would often linger there for a while, staying at the inn to talk to the townspeople, many of whom he’d gradually come to consider friends and who seemed to return the sentiment. 

Still, above all, Simon found that he preferred Meeko’s company. The dog was affectionate and loyal, providing him with the kind of companionship he hadn’t felt in a long time. He loved the way he was always around and how they seemed to understand each other without a single word. His previous owner had loved him well and the Hunter was certain he cherished him at least as dearly. 

As the sun once again started to set over Skyrim, this new place that was becoming his home, he decided to go back inside his house. He whistled for Meeko to join him inside and the animal happily obeyed. He walked over to the hearth and lit it and started to cook some food for the both of them. 

He dined on some leeks and deer and the dog happily accepted the entire rabbit he’d cooked just for him. After they had sated themselves, Simon then went to sit on his bed to read one of the many books he had acquired. He didn’t at all object when Meeko squirmed his way onto the bed as well, putting his head into his lap just to be close. The Hunter happily stroked his beloved pet as he read, letting out a content sigh.

This was how he wanted things. Simple. Peaceful. With the kind of friend that he could trust through and through. Far away from Yharnam and the Healing Church. Far away from the Hunter’s Nightmare and its curse. The cosmos could go to Oblivion, as they’d say it here, as far as he was concerned. This was paradise and he wouldn’t mind living out his life this way.

Of course, he hadn’t forgotten who had given him all this. Sai, the strange God of Luck, who for some reason decided to take pity on a poor harrowed Hunter. Simon still didn’t know why, but he was glad he did and every now and then, he was sure to commemorate the deity in a prayer.

Still, while he always thanked Sai, he never asked him for anything. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t need it. He was happy now and he didn’t want to rely on luck alone for the rest of his life. Only the foolish did and he had shed foolishness long ago in Yharnam. 

No, he was content. Content in this new, simple life, which allowed him to live peacefully and be of use to the people in the town below. Fortune had favored him long enough to get him on his feet. Now, he would maintain the life it allowed him to build and the good things it created all on his own. After everything he’d endured, he knew he could.


	10. Peryite's Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iosefka finds her oaths tested.

Do no harm.

That was the oath Iosefka swore when she took up her studies as a doctor. The Hippocratic Oath, the oath every doctor of any kind should abide by. The oath that should give life. To her, however, it had only brought death.

The urge to heal started at a very young age. Her parents died from the ashen blood plague when she was still an infant and she’d been sent to an orphanage in the Healing Church. A bittersweet development, all things considered. While she had rather grown up in a warm, loving family, they’d been as poor as church mice. In the orphanage, she was well-red and looked after and, most importantly, she got the kind of education her family could have never afforded. One that was centered around science and where she quickly found her niche as a healer, so other children might not grow up the way she had.

Perhaps it was her determination and drive, but she proved to have a knack for the healing profession. Her precise personality and attention for detail made her adept at recognizing illness and her excellent memory and creativity proficient at deciding and devising cures. She excelled at her studies and by the time she was a young adult, she was swiftly proceeding through the ranks of the Healing Church. 

So much promise did she apparently have that when the Choir came to recruit new members, she had been one of the first they visited. When they offered her to join them, she had readily accepted. After all, to be recruited by the Choir was an honor for any member of the Healing Church. Those who were part of it belonged to the upper echelons of the establishment and had access to unprecedented knowledge. 

Initially, her membership of the Choir had been wonderful. As a wide-eyed, idealistic youth, she had relished the new possibilities available to her. She had poured all of her time into devising new treatments and cures, determined to find a way to combat the plague of Beasts that ravaged her beloved city.

Yet in time, as more and more doors opened to her, doubts started to creep in. It started when her request to go to Old Yharnam and study the place was denied. She had been stunned when it was. If they were to combat the plague, then shouldn’t they look around its source and see what they could find? She hadn’t understood, but her faith in her superiors made her set it aside. 

Her suspicion was once again raised, however, when she had taken to studying the antidote and beast blood pellets that seemed to be distributed throughout Yharnam. Her goal had been to study its effects and device better methods from it. Yet when she detailed all her peculiar findings in a research paper, particularly that they seemed created to combat manmade poisons, her superiors had been quick to dismiss her, confiscate it and told her to focus her energy on more useful endeavors, especially the application of Old Blood.

This time, she couldn’t ignore it quite as easily. Why were her superiors so quick to turn down her findings? She couldn’t help but feel the Church was…afraid of her research somehow. That they didn’t want the knowledge of it, and its contents, to become known…

It should have made her wary, but that was the gift of hindsight. Even then, she refused to believe that the people who had saved her from the street, who fed her and raised her and to whom she owed her very being, to have sinister intentions. So while she did write another paper and hid it, she didn’t openly question them and dutifully continued her work. 

Still, it was only a month or so later when the one revelation happened. The one to shatter her illusion about the Healing Church and its intentions. It was when some of the Church’s Hunters captured a live specimen of beast from Old Yharnam and turned to her in order to experiment on it, to see if a mere beast could still ascent.

Iosefka didn’t know why it was she chose to disobey her superiors. Why she suddenly felt an urge to rebel, to doubt their words and wisdom. So instead of experimenting on the specimen, as she was told, she instead started to work on a cure, to reduce the symptoms of beast blood, if not cure it.

Again, her talent as a doctor showed. In the privacy of her own laboratory, she had tried several treatments on the subject. While nowhere close to a cure, they had indeed been effective in combatting the symptoms. Soon, the beast started looking a little more human and, most notably, it regained its ability to speak. 

Even so, it had absolutely no words of gratitude for her. It yelled and raved at her, calling her a whore of the Healing Church. A murderer of women and children. A monster who had poisoned their water, then cursed them with strange blood. It was them who brought about this nightmare and in time, it warned her, in time they would all pay.

These words had shocked her to their core, yet where her loyalty would have her dismiss them, her suspicion spoke louder. She heeded them and did what she did best; she did her research. She delved deep into the secret, hidden archives of the Choir, the ones that contained the ruminations of the first vicar Laurence himself, and it was there she found her proof.

She had been shaken beyond belief. To think that the Church, the people she looked up to, were capable of such horrors all to come to power. She had hurried back to the subject, desperate to find out more, only to scream when she returned to the laboratory. The beast lay dead and standing over it were two senior Church Hunters.

Her superiors told her the subject had become impossible to handle, but she already knew better. They had killed it because it knew the truth and if they had but an inkling that she did too, she would be next. With neither the bravery nor resources to expose them, she made a decision. That same night, she grabbed all her possessions and fled, setting up a small clinic in a more rundown district of the town. 

Were it now that she had fled Yharnam instead. Tonight, the Church had caught onto her betrayal. It was why she was here, strapped to a chair, screaming for mercy as a scholar of the choir violated her by injecting strange substances into her body. The woman, however, was deaf to her pleas, instead smiling serenely throughout the torture, muttering about her own ascension and how pleased the Gods were with her.

The worst part was that Iosefka knew her, though not by name. She was a relatively new member of the Choir. No doubt still as fresh-faced and idealistic as she once was. A perfect person for the Church to eliminate her. She had no doubts that they had given her leave to experiment upon her as well. It didn’t matter what the woman did, as long as she could no longer talk by the end of it. 

Soon, she would no longer be able to. Her body was already deforming into a gruesome parody of itself. Her head was filled with horrific visions, each more eldritch than the last. Her mind was tearing at the seams and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold on. Especially not when she could hear the scholar pretend to be her at the door, seducing passing Hunters to bring her even more subjects for her experiments and she no longer had the ability to scream that it was a trap.

A new wave of visions came over her, increasing as she inched ever closer to death. Alien landscapes. Monstrous creatures. People changing into beast and praying to the cosmos. Then, much to her surprise, a dragon. Not unlike the ones from the books she read as a child.

She couldn’t understand that last one. Was she regressing to a child’s mind somehow or so desperate that she clung on to her last pleasant memories? The visions made it so hard to keep a clear head… Still, all attempts to think logically ceased when the scaly being looked her right in the eye and spoke. 

“So rotten, so defiled. Yet capable. Just what I need…”

She wasn’t given any chance to be surprised or question those words. Suddenly, the dragon moved forward and its maw clamped around her. Within seconds, she was cloaked in darkness and her consciousness slipped away.

When she came to, the clinic was no more. Instead, she found herself in the middle of a decayed wasteland. Everywhere she looked, there was rot and waste and in the distance, there was an endless sea of hot, corrupted lava. The air was heavy with disease and she shivered at all the desolation that surrounded her. 

“You are awake, Iosefka. Good.”

The doctor looked up and for a moment, her heart stood still. In front of her, barely a feet away, the dragon had manifested once more. It inched closer to her and when she regained her senses, she scrambled away. A laugh came from its mouth. 

“I have no intention of eating you. I am not an actual dragon as you know it. This is simply a form most mortals are comfortable with.”

His reassurance calmed her a little, but his words confused her more than anything else. “Who are you? D-did you bring me here?”

“Yes. You are in the Pits, the realm over which I hold sway. I am Peryite, Daedric Prince of Pestilence and Taskmaster of the Daedric Princes.”

“Pestilence”. That certainly explained the environment she was currently in. That very notion made her weary. Something told her then and there that whomever…whatever she was speaking to was not a kind creature. She decided it was best not to incur his wrath and carefully try to learn more. 

“Are you a God? A Great One?”

The being chortled. “I suppose that’s what I would be called in your world, yes. But details do not matter. I have brought you here for a purpose.”

Iosefka remained quiet, allowing him to continue. “A while ago, I plagued several scattered Breton settlements with a grave illness. My priest Orchendor was to led them to the ruins of Bthardamz for my purposes, yet went astray and was killed for his presumption. My plans for these afflicted fell through and now, it is a ruin filled with sick Bretons without a purpose.”

The doctor was stunned at hearing this and rather confused. “You are the God of Pestilence. How come you are not delighted with their illness?”

The words were out before she realized it, but Peryite didn’t seem displeased. “Indeed I command Pestilence, but I am also a Taskmaster. Disease should have purpose, cleanse the world and leave a stronger populace in its wake. Else, it is merely destruction and there is nothing left to whittle.” 

She listened to him, not interrupting even though his explanation caused her to grow cold. It was clear to her that this was an evil entity, one that operated on a kind of morality she couldn’t begin to comprehend. Her best bet was to simply wait and see what would happen next. 

“I can create disease, but I cannot cure it. You are a talented healer, familiar with the unnatural. So I need you to heal these people and restore the balance.”

Iosefka blinked as he explained this. A God of Diseases wanted her to cure them. It sounded like the world’s greatest jest. Besides, how did he expect her to heal when she was but a shadow of her former self, an eldritch mutation worked beyond human form? She was almost too scared to speak out about these doubts, but it seemed the deity noticed nonetheless. 

“I can see you are hesitant. Let me sweeten the deal. In exchange for your help, I will return you to your original form. Once you have performed your task, you will be free to live out your life on the mortal plane. Fear not, it is a green and lively place, unlike the Pits.”

The doctor couldn’t quite explain, but for some reason, she felt that this fearsome being was telling the truth. That he was prideful enough to keep his word, at the very least. It was all she had right now and frankly, she didn’t have much choice. 

She didn’t want to go back to Yharnam, screaming in that chair nor did she want to stay in this horrific wasteland. She wanted her body and mind back. She wanted her life back and finally escape the burden of the Healing Church. She wanted to live… 

That last emotion was what motivated her answer. “I shall do as you command, my Lord.”

She could tell he was pleased when he responded. “Splendid. I will send you to Skyrim then, to my shrine in the Reach. You will find one of my followers there. His name is Kesh the Clean. He will see to your basic needs and guide you to the ruins of Bthardamz. Good luck, Iosefka. May you succeed.”

Within moments of him saying that, the blackness enveloped her again. She crashed through an Abyss, while a swarm of strange, small creatures ate away at her misshapen body until only a human form remained. She seemed to be lost amidst a whirlpool, not knowing which way was up or down, until she could do nothing but pray for it to finally end. 

When it did, after possibly years or centuries, she woke. She felt nauseous, dehydrated and barely strong enough to even lift her head. She tried to open her eyes, only to feel her head pounding when she heard someone speak nearby.

“Ah, Lord Peryite finally sent us a healer.”

The doctor sensed a presence nearby and tried her best to look at the person. Once she did, she was sure she was dreaming. After all, what else explained the fact that she was seeing a large, humanoid and talking cat? Either that or this world had its own sort of beasts just like Yharnam….

The being noticed her trepidation. “Don’t worry. This one is not cursed with disease or bloodlust. I am Kesh. My Lord Peryite sent you to cure Bthardamz, yes?”

Hearing several words the dragon had mentioned, she weakly nodded and he laughed. “This is most excellent. Here, allow me to provide you with some clothes and sustenance. Kesh will tell you all he knows before bringing you to the ruins on the morrow.”

Still disorientated and a little unsure of her surroundings, Iosefka simply nodded. Sensing that she was naked, she was happy to accept the clothes, as well as fresh and purified water to drink. She allowed Kesh to help her up and he set her in front of a cooking spit as he made them a meal. 

The food, “Elseweyr fondue” as he called it, was unknown to her but tasted delicious. The meal lifted her spirits somewhat and finally allowed her to make some sense of her situation. Once properly sated, she decided to ask her strange feline host about Peryite, just to make sure that everything she saw was real. 

Kesh, however, proved quite helpful. He told her all he knew about Peryite, his sphere of influence and informed her of the nature of these so-called Daedric Princes. He talked about Tamriel, the world they were in, and the most interesting points of its history. He even found time to tell her about his race, the Khajiit, and their home province of Elseweyr. 

Most of all, he talked about Bthardamz. He explained the history of the ruins and especially the condition of the Afflicted within. He confessed that he had made attempts to heal them himself, as he was an alchemist and not as susceptible to disease due to his clean way of life. Still, the disease would not yield under the usual potions and he swore they was something…supernatural to the illness.

Iosefka quietly absorbed everything he told her, as to mentally prepare her for the task ahead. As reality slowly sank in, she started to get worried. She was a stranger in this world, with only the medical knowledge of the Healing Church to guide her. If a person of this world couldn’t cure this sickness, then how could she? Had she done right to accept Peryite’s offer or had she made a Faustian bargain?

Still, she didn’t express such doubts. Instead, she thanked Kesh for his hospitality and knowledge. He told her she was welcome and that she should rest properly, so she would be in good shape when they left for the ruins in the morning. 

They left early the next day. Kesh had been so kind to pack her extra food and drink, as well as several herbs that might be useful during the healing process. He did his best to give her courage and she appreciated his efforts. 

The journey over there was a short one, too short in her mind. When they finally reached the ruins, she could already smell the sickness outside and as they entered, it only grew worse. Yet nothing compared to seeing the afflicted.

They were like human skeletons, emaciated with a thin layer of blemished skin stretched over their protruding bones. They were coughing and wheezing, on death’s door yet somehow not dying. Yet what frightened her the most was the poisonous substance they seemed to vomit up regularly. She nearly fainted. Just what had she gotten herself into? 

When they saw her, they turned to her with hostility in their eyes. Kesh, however, stopped them and introduced her, explaining who she was and what she was set out to do. She could hear muffled sighs of relief go through the crowd and when a few of them fell to their knees in front of her, begging her to save them in the name of their Lord, she realized she couldn’t possibly refuse.

A doctor wasn’t going to turn her back on the people who needed her so badly.

Thus, she got to work. Her first step was to document all the symptoms, as well as figure out where the plague came from. Her new patients proved very helpful and tried to provide as many details as possible. She quickly realized the plague had been spread by skeevers, rat-like creatures of this world, but that its actual nature was a lot more complicated than that. Especially since the skeevers apparently showed none of the vomiting or blemishes the humans did.

Once she had gathered all these details, she started collecting samples. Mostly of the skin, sweet, urine, feces and the vomit. Especially the latter one was a difficult thing to achieve, thanks to its poisonous and erosive nature, but she managed with much creativity. She set out to study these and in the meantime, laid out a strict regimen for the people she was looking after.

First of all, she forced them to go outside the ruins at least once a day, to take in the fresh air. She took away their alcohol, instead finding a way to purify water and have them drink it instead. She put them on a healthy diet, fruit vegetables, potatoes and a side of meat that Kesh would bring in once a week along with alchemy ingredients. They only really protested when she insisted they lock away the barrels with green incense, saying it was used to perceive their God, but they soon proved desperate enough to give her her way. With these rules in place, she started the process of trying to treat them.

It definitely wasn’t easy. Initially, she had worked on ways to decrease their symptoms. It was a case of trial and error, of much reading and experimenting. The first few concoctions, made from standard healing ingredients like vampire dust or mudcrab chitin, she came up with barely did anything and some seemed to make the afflicted even sicker. She, however, had only just begun.

As she continued trying out new formulas, she would also explore the ruins. A good decision, as she soon stumbled upon some interesting discoveries. The roots of a large, primordial tree with what looked like yellow boils on it. This so-called “boil tree” quickly gained her interest, especially when she cut one of the boils off and found it was absorbing the fumes of the poisonous bile and purifying it. She quickly integrated it into her treatments, realizing she might be onto something.

Indeed, the treatments with the sap seemed to have effect, suppressing the symptoms if only for a little while. Additionally, she realized that charred skeever skin would also have an effect and she started looking more into the idea of the infect skeevers. She managed to obtain a few samples of blood from the ones now scurrying in the ruins, an unpleasant but necessary task, and started to study to see what caused them to remain asymptomatic. 

Day by day, her research progressed and every day, she seemed to learn something new. With each new discovery and experiment, she started to chisel away at the plague. That the work was hard and progress slow didn’t matter to her. She had set out to help these people and she wouldn’t rest before she succeeded.

The afflicted greatly seemed to appreciate her efforts. While initially hesitant but needy, they soon started to warm up to her. They appreciated her kindness and efforts, the way she looked after their wellbeing. Many of them told her they had been sure they’d been abandoned, but that her presence had given them hope. 

It was good to hear such kind words, such appreciation after so long in the Healing Church. She knew she should not be emotionally involved, but what these afflicted strangers told her effected the doctor deeply. And with every story about their homes, their families and their histories, she grew more determined. She had failed the people of Yharnam. She refused to fail these people as well.

Still, as the weeks slowly turned into months and half a year had passed and still, she was no closer to actually solving the conundrum. While she had found several ways to lighten the pain and symptoms, an actual cure remained well out of reach. The afflicted continued to suffer, kept alive by the power of their Daedric Prince, and Iosefka continued to grasp in the dark. 

The afflicted remained patient and seeing their predicament, what else could they be? Yet for her, the burden grew heavier and heavier every day. With every lack of progress, she grew more downtrodden and with every two steps forward, she seemed to go another back. 

After a while, the walls of the ruins seemed to close in on her, no matter times she would go outside to get some fresh air. She started to feel trapped, hopeless, as if she was running in a circle without even realizing. What was previously a voluntary stay was becoming a prison and what was killing her was the despair of a disease that refused to die. 

She would keep on a brave face for the patients, telling them to keep the faith. She didn’t want them to know just how her sanity seemed to be slipping away. She would act positive when they were around and only when they were all asleep would she head to her makeshift laboratory and cry.

Yet that too eventually became impossible to keep up. One day, while the afflicted were outside, she sat over her work and simply sobbed. She had read everything a thousand times at least, made all the notes there were to make. As far as she saw it, she had explored every option and still, the end of her burden was not yet in sight.

Was this all perhaps a cruel jest on Peryite’s part, she wondered. After all, he was a cruel and abominable being. One who should hate healers by default. Was this his idea of entertainment? To trap a doctor with a disease she couldn’t possibly heal and have her either stay eternally or renounce her oath?

Perhaps it was indeed so. She had tried everything in her power and perhaps, the power of medicine was not enough in this case. If this disease was supernatural, deriving from Peryite himself, then what could she, a mere mortal, do to stop it?

Peryite…

There, half-slumbering over her work, it dawned on her. The answer she was so desperately looking for. She jerked awake, eyes wide in realization. If the disease was caused by Peryite, then maybe his very essence, or what was used to perceive it, could undo it. She jumped up and ran outside, determined to get to work right away.

The afflicted had thought her crazy when she told them to help her take out the barrels again. Nonetheless, they obeyed her and hauled the vats out, wondering what she would do next. She took a large sample of the incense inside and after a few days of studying its contents, she found the solution.

A few days later, she had constructed an antidote to the contents of the incense, then added the saps of the “boil tree” as well as the panacea from the blood of the infected skeevers as well as their charred hide. Once she had measured the dosages of everything in it and created a stable concoction, she started feeding it to a test group. She had a good feeling about it somehow, but she was careful not to rejoice too soon. 

Still, Iosefka couldn’t believe it when the days after, she started to see notable improvements in her patients. They were in less pain and seemed to respond to their environment a lot better. The blemishes left their skin. The vomiting started decrease until it finally stopped and their appetites grew. Kesh now came by regularly to bring food and without the retching, her patients were soon regaining their health and strength. It was then she started to give the antidote to all of the patients and she was more than pleased when they showed the same, consistent results.

After about two weeks, the first of them showed signs of being fully healed. Others soon followed and bit by the bit, the disease was eradicated from the ruin. After a while, those who had healed decided it was a good time to leave and bid their farewell to travel back to their native province of High Rock, yet not without profusely thanking her. In the days after, others soon followed and within another week, the once heavily populated ruin was devoid of its stricken population.

The doctor had to admit she felt a little sad when the last of them left for High Rock. She had established a bond with them after all this time, learning all about them, and it was a pity their ways would now part. She felt rather alone now after having left with these people for so long…

Yet, at the same time, she also felt immense excitement. At long last, after more than half a year in these ruins, she had succeeded in her task. The disease that had gripped these people was gone and she alone had conquered it, discovering groundbreaking medicine in the process. It was an achievement any doctor would be proud of. 

It was there, looking over the empty courtyard after the last one left, that she suddenly felt it. Something was different and now the now clear air had once again grown foul. There was a presence here and she already had a suspicion of who it was.

When she blinked, a dragon stood before her once more. He didn’t look any different from the last time she saw him. Not surprising, as deities, good or evil, never grew old. She approached him dutifully and waited for him to speak first.

“You have truly outdone yourself, Iosefka. Bthardamz is empty again and you haven’t lost a single patient.”

Despite herself, Iosefka was proud enough to manage a weak smile. “I did as you asked me. As I felt I should do. So…am I free to go now? Can I go into Skyrim?”

Peryite grinned, as far a dragon could. “Oh yes, you are more than free to leave now. Yet before you go, I have one last thing for you. A gift, if you will, a sign of goodwill from a Daedric Prince to his servant.”

The doctor could feel her eyebrows raise at that. A gift, for her? For services rendered? That seemed entirely too generous of a Lord of Pestilence. Her instinct told her to be on her guard, but she was wise enough not to voice her suspicions.

“And what may that gift be, my Lord?”

Again, he grinned his jagged teeth bare. “See for yourself.”

Suddenly, there was magic in the room. A burst of it, blinding her. She covered her face with her hand, only to see that something had materialized in the room when the magic faded. 

She forgot to breathe as she looked upon it. Before her was a woman. She was on her knees, disheveled and naked as the day she was born, a diseased look on her. Her hands were tied behind her back and her feet were similarly shackled. A gag was placed over her mouth, muffling the frightened noises she made.

Yet it was not her pitiable condition that had her overcome with horror. She had seen far more terrible things in all her years of healing the sick and injured. It was rather that the woman wasn’t a stranger to her at all…

“You…”

Peryite’s laugh echoed throughout the temple. “Ah, so you know who this is. She is you. Or well, at least she pretended to be you. Right after she killed you.”

Without realizing it, Iosefka could feel her hands ball into fists. She remembered. She remembered all too well. How this woman had ambushed her in her own clinic and subdued her before she could fight back. How she had restrained her, exacting gruesome experiments on her for hours on end. How she had laughed while she begged for mercy, her mind slipping as her human form was taking from her with each passing day, overtaken by eldritch horrors she couldn’t withstand. 

And now, she was here. In front of her, bound and gagged. Reeking of disease, the same one she had been surrounded with for months now. The cruel, studious look in her eyes replaced by one of utter fear.

The Daedric Prince spoke again. “She too perished in your world, trying to attain enlightenment. So eager she seemed to meet a godly being, yet when she was brought to the Pits, all she could do was shriek in horror. I suppose she should have been careful what she wished for.”

The imposter spoke again, begged more like, though the words were muffled by the peace of cloth. She was shaking, eyes wide. As the eldritch god spoke, Iosefka swore she could smell urine as well as sickness now.

“I had her pay for her presumptions. The disease you cured my followers of is now her share. Still, as the one who felt injustice at her hand, I think you should decide her fate.”

The doctor perked up at that, stunned. She looked at the woman, who was now white as a sheet. The smug superiority she had once seen on her face was gone. Clearly, she wasn’t taking the reversal of their positions very well. 

“What shall we do with her? Should I sent her back to the Pits, to be tortured a little longer? Do you wish to take one of your scalpels and open her throat? Or should we simply leave her here, to slowly waste away until she dies from her disease alone and forgotten. The choice is yours, a final gesture of good faith from me to you.”

Bthardamz once again grew quiet and it was there Iosefka knew it was up to her. Again, she looked over at the woman. The one person who had caused her so much misery and pain. Right now, she was no longer a doctor. Here, she was judge, jury and executioner. 

Within the deepest crevices of her person, she could feel an intense sense of satisfaction boiling up. This woman, who had remotely killed others for her own selfish motives, was now in a position she couldn’t escape. She needed to pay for her actions and it was up to her to decide which way was most effective.

She quickly ruled out ending her with her own hands. She was no killer and loathed the idea of spilling blood herself. Besides, with her surgical talent, it would likely be far too quick.

The idea of simply letting her die of her affliction was far more tempting. After all, her own death had been slow and merciless. It would be rather poetic to give her the same agonizing experience as she once again met her end.

Still, sending her back to the Pits sounded particularly attractive. This insane scholar had committed inhumane crimes simply to commune with the Gods. How fitting would it be if she got her wish, except it meant she would be stuck in a wasteland of illness and decay. 

Iosefka mulled over her options, seemingly for an eternity. So many choices, so little time. So many ways to pay back onto those who had hurt her. So many opportunities to have her revenge.

And then what?

Like a sudden strike of lightning, that question wormed to the forefront of her mind. Once she had inflicted her punishment on the imposter, then what? If she was dead, that was that. If she left her to die of her disease, she definitely wasn’t staying around to watch. If she sent her to the Pits, then she would be tortured far beyond the amount of time she herself had suffered and would likely still be there by the time the doctor herself had turned to dust. 

Her conscious started to creep further to the fore. Was this kind of judgment truly fair? Wasn’t all of it excessive? Wouldn’t all of it solve nothing in the end? Was she, as a doctor, truly supposed to crave revenge, when she had promised to do no harm?

That last thought cleared her mind, like a thick mist suddenly dissipating. Almost immediately, a sense of shame came over her. The choice Peryite offered her was not right. None of this was right. Or fair. Or just for that matter. 

She was here, alive once more. In a new world, about to embark on a new life away from those who took her old ones. She was free now, no longer shackled to the horrors of Yharnam. What point was there in wanting recompense for sins that no longer affected her?

A smile spread upon her face. It scared the woman more than her anger and by now, she started sobbing. The doctor simply ignored it. She had made her choice.

She turned around and walked to the nearest table. There, she picked up the nearest potion, already knowing the contents by heart. With it in hand, she returned to the captive woman, tearing the gag from her face before she uncorked the glass bottle.

The imposter panicked as she brought it closer to her face. “N-no… No! Please, no! I beg of you! Please, not like this! Not…”

Iosefka simply ignored her pleas. Timing it correctly, she pushed the bottle into the woman’s mouth, then forced her to tilt her head. When she refused to swallow, the doctor pinched her nose. Soon, she was drinking down the contents, struggling as she did, until there was not even a drop left. Only then did Iosefka remove it from her mouth and stood back as the scholar gasped for breath, shaking like a leaf.

Suddenly, the area was once again alive with the Daedric Prince’s booming voice. “You had your enemy at your feet, to punish her as your saw fit, and yet, you chose to heal her?”

He sounded astonished, confused, even a little bit insulted. Clearly, he hadn’t expected her to think outside the box, let alone for her to be merciful and he clearly wasn’t certain whether it pleased him. Iosefka, however, found that she didn’t care. She had made her choice and she was going to stand by it. 

“I am a doctor. That is what I do. That is what I was sworn to do.”

She was met with silence, possibly the thickest and most uncomfortable one she had ever felt in her entire life. By now, she knew that Peryite, as most of his kind, didn’t like to be disobeyed, especially not by a mere mortal. No doubt he was considering smiting her then and there, along with the imposter to prove a point. 

She should be scared, but somehow Iosefka only felt an immense calmness taking over her. As far as she was concerned, she had done the right thing. She had been compassionate as a doctor should. She was more than willing to die for that belief.

Then, out of nowhere, there was laughter. Loud as thunder, swift and clear as a raging waterfall. Cruelty and amusement all in one, the laughter of an eldritch abomination who had somehow been moved by the acts of mortals. It seemed to take ages before he recovered and when he did, he sounded more amiable than ever.

“I suppose it was naïve of me to think a doctor would serve the Lord of Pestilence for long. Nonetheless, you have served me well and you have been most interesting to watch. For that I thank you and you have more than earned your right to be here on Nirn.”

Despite herself, the doctor smiled. “Thank you, my Lord. Whatever else I can say of you, my time under your service was informative, to say the least.”

Her diplomatic attempt at courtesy only made him chuckle. “Farewell, Iosefka. Live well. And perhaps, we shall meet again, when cure and disease collide.”

Then, out of nowhere, she could feel his presence fade. With him, the last trace of sickness faded and she could vaguely sense the gates of Oblivion open as the Daedric Prince slipped back through to his realm. Bthardamz was silent and sterile once more, leaving just her and the bound imposter. 

After a few moments of relishing her newfound peace, she turned to her again. She took the dagger from her belt and started to cut through the bonds. The woman grabbed her own wrists the moments she was loose, rubbing them and hissing at the burn of the ropes. It took her a few moments to register the doctor’s presence again and she froze, anxiously waiting for whatever would come next.

Iosefka gave her a stern look. “The medicine will need a few days to take effect. I recommend you stay here until then. There’s food and drink as well as clothes in this place, enough to sustain you until you are cured. After that, I suggest you leave and find your own way.”

Her advice, so casually offered, took a while to get through to her. Once it did, she practically jumped, then nodded almost sycophantically. She managed a weak, hesitant smile, in a half-hearted attempt at gratitude.

The doctor, however, found herself unreceptive to it. By now, she was really feeling the weight of this ruin. Her work here was done and as Peryite said, she had earned her freedom. She wanted nothing more than to leave this place and see what lay beyond it. 

She turned around, but as she did, the imposter called out. “You…you saved me… Why? Why would you save the one who killed you?”

The doctor looked over her shoulder, regarding her coolly. “Because I swore to do no harm. I will keep to that. Even to the likes of you.”

She started to walk away, only for the woman to scoff. “A lot of good it does you. There’s no Healing Church here and you are alone, dead and reborn in a strange world with the only familiar face being the one who once killed you. Even you cannot be so forgiving.”

Iosefka stopped in her tracks and looked back at her. She looked at that woman as she lay there on her knees, smirking smugly. Once, it would have made her angry. But now, she saw right through it, an ill-fitting mask to hide the absolute horror of her situation. This was a woman who was not given what she wanted and had no will to get up, dust herself off and try again. 

It was there the doctor realized it. For the first time, she saw just how small this woman was. How she was nothing beyond a failed goal for which she had sacrificed so much. She looked at her and grimaced. She was not something to be feared. If anything, she was utterly pathetic and only deserving of pity. 

“You’re right. There is no Healing Church here. But that is alright; I have no need of the past when there is a future. A future I can go into with a clear conscience. You will have to live with what you have done. I do not.”

Those words were spoken calmly, without anger or malice, yet as cold as winter’s evening. The moment she said them, the imposter’s face changed. The mask became undone and there was a sound half a gasp and half a sob. The full reality of her predicament sank in, of her being trapped in this plane of existence forever cut off from her beloved Gods. There was no mocking an act of kindness now. In fact, Iosefka realized, the woman might now feel that she had been even crueler by leaving her alive. 

She, however, no longer cared. Not for the now weeping woman on the floor or the lifeless ruins in which they stood. Her work here was done and it was time to go.

Again, she turned from her imposter and walked away. She grabbed her knapsack, containing the only items she held dear enough to take with her. Then she headed for the entrance of Bthardamz and never once did she look back. 

The sunlight stung her eyes as she stepped outside and her lungs burned from the ever present chilly air. It didn’t bother her much. It felt wonderful to be outside again, to leave these ruins permanently, knowing there was no disease left in it. The rough landscape of the Reach promised freedom and she only had to walk into it for it to be hers.

She had already made up her mind. She would go southeast of here, past the Shrine of Peryite to visit with Kesh one last time, then to a small settlement named Karthwasten. From there, she would travel to Markarth, to gather supplies and perhaps find people in need of her aid. 

After that, who knew? She wasn’t particularly worried. She had already earned her right to be on this plane of existence. She would find her place in it, one way or another. She was a healer and as far as she knew, healers would always be needed. 

She smiled. Peryite had been right. She was indeed a poor choice for a servant of the God of Pestilence. She had not betrayed her ideals even before him and after surviving that, there was no way she would now. This would be her home and she would defend it against disease, natural or supernatural, until her dying breath.


	11. Lord of the Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brador finds his way to a pit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any American readers, I'm going to put an explanation of the word "niggardly" here, just to be sure there aren't any misunderstandings. "Niggardly" is an old English word which means "stingy" or "miserly". It can be traced back to the Middle English term "nigon" (which means the same), which in itself can be traced back to the Norse "nigla", which means "to fuss over small matters" and "hnøgger", which also means "stingy". It is not related to the racial slur against African-Americans, which is derived from the Spanish word "negro", which in itself comes from the Latin word "niger", both of which mean "black".   
> It is a very old word, older than the racial slur by several centuries, that can be found in a lot of old literature, especially in Victorian times (like the work of Charles Dickens) and sometimes even in modern fantasy literature, like George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire_. In a world like Bloodborne, which is based on the Victorian era, it felt appropriate for its characters to use older words like these. Especially Simon, who uses rather elaborate words and sentence structures at times.

The bell was forever silent now. Nevermore would it ring again. Never again would the assassin of the Healing Church slip appear to slay their foes. 

Brador’s duty was over in death. The man who had slain so many was finally slain himself, by a none too worthy foe even. It would have shamed him were it not for the despair. The despair brought on by the knowledge that all he had done to preserve the Church’s secrets had been for naught. 

Not that it was ever his choice to become an assassin. It hadn’t even remotely crossed his mind even when he joined the ranks of Yharnam’s religious authority. He’d been like so many others who had come to the city. A foreigner, struck by a fatal illness, desperate for even the most fleeting rumor of a cure.

He found it in that strange town, just like everyone else did, and for him, the experience wasn’t without strings attached either. Soon, he found himself a Hunter for the Church, inspired by brave, fierce men like Laurence and Ludwig. It was a quick route to respect and a sense of community and he had gone along with it as so many men and women in the city had.

Even when he knew the monsters he thought were human beings, he saw no reason to turn back. After all, only the weak would turn, those who lacked faith in the Gods. The likes of him, Hunters for the holy Church, would never fall victim to something so unseemly. He genuinely believed that with all his heart. 

Until that night. 

Even now, the details were hard to digest. He recalled being trapped in a warehouse for days, being lost from the rest of their party whose task it was too look for dissenters of the Church. His compatriot, a brave young cleric, suddenly wailing in agony. Her last confession that she had indulged in too much blood and her final words for him to run as she started to sprout fur and teeth, becoming damned to beasthood.

A scant few moments later, she was dead. Her now bestial throat torn open by what looked like teeth and the blood on his own mouth. Still locked in that abandoned warehouse and driven mad by hunger, he had started to consume her now transformed flesh. Horrified but unable to help himself, he’d then taken her pelt, keeping it on him in a last desperate effort to remember her, to hang on to his sanity, but help still didn’t come. He’d continued to eat until there was no more was left and the last vestiges of humanity slipped from him in favor of animalistic survival.

By the time other Hunters finally found him, nothing much was left of the man he once was. He was raving mad, alternately laughing and crying, asking his former compatriots when they would hunt again. He was hungry once more and longing for the taste of beast flesh. 

Rightly horrified by what he had become, the leaders of the Church decided his faith quickly. They knew then and there he could no longer walk the streets of Yharnam but he was also far too useful to simply put him out of his misery. So instead, they led him to the Hunter’s Nightmare and locked him deep inside. They gave him that bell, that wretched bell, to ring and go after any Hunter who might venture too close to the truth. Until, at last, one Hunter silenced him and the bell instead and he passed from the world of the living. 

Now what had become of him? Where was he? He expected everything to cease after his life ended. Yet he was still “here”, wherever that was, conscious and aware.

Here beyond the veil, he was cleansed of the insanity that had haunted him for years. In death, he was free of corruption, of the deeds that shaped him into the warped man he had become. It was only a pity that such freedom was rendered absolutely useless now.

To be fair, the Church assassin had never thought much about the afterlife. It seemed like a waste of time to do so. He was already too busy with caring about life and death in this life and after his experiences in Yharnam, the whole concept of good and evil became a futile one.

In the faith he was born in, he had committed many sins. He’d eaten the flesh of men turned beasts. He’d killed with impunity. He’d partaken of foul, corrupted blood. He was certain that in the eyes of any gods of men, he’d be damned to a pit of fire, to burn for all eternity.

He almost laughed at that idea now. Such a lack of imagination. The things he’d seen, the powers that truly lurked in the cosmos. The Great Ones cared nothing where the souls of mankind went after they died. To them, they were mere ants and not nearly important enough to continue existing after death. 

So why did he linger? What was the point? Remorse was pointless to him and from the looks of it, if it this was torture, he wasn’t very impressed.

He’d woken up on these tiles, stark naked. He’d been alone, in what looked like a ruined fortress, and while it was somewhat chilly, he didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness a few times and was in no particular hurry to see just where exactly he had ended up.

The cool tiles brought some relief to his flushed skin. It was quiet here and no longer did he have to ring that bell, the sound which few others heard but never left the crevices of his own mind. This barren place was more like paradise than damnation to him. He could stay like this, just a while longer. 

“A volunteer! The Embryonic Prince be praised, a volunteer!”

There were voices suddenly. Voices all around him and glimpses of men and women dressed in dark robes. They sounded ecstatic, as if the cosmos itself had opened to him and they were chosen to ascend. 

“We can proceed with the ceremony now! Lord Gyub has provided for us! Indeed, he truly looks after his followers!”

Brador didn’t understand their words, nor did he feel any particular need to. These people weren’t real to him, couldn’t be real. He was dead, he knew he was. Anything he still saw at this point was only a hallucination.

It was then, in the distance, that he started to hear a chanting. Foreign and unnatural. Captivating and disturbing. So like the pleas in the prayers of the Vicars and yet so unlike it at the same time. 

_Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.  
Hear us, Warbling Redeemer.  
Hail the Rebirth approaching.  
Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit._

He cared little for it, right until the moment hands started to grab at him. Several of them took him by the arms and the legs, then effortlessly lifted him off the floor. He was still too disorientated to struggle and something told him that it was futile to do so even if he wanted.

He could feel how they forced something onto his body. Clothes, likely, though not the comfortable kind. They reeked rather badly, as if at a dozen of others had worn it before him. Not that it bothered him, after so long of wearing a rotting scalp of a Cleric Beast on his own head, his clothes stained with its pungent blood. 

For a brief moment, it felt like he was soaring. He was carried, to where he didn’t know. Let them, he figured. He sure didn’t have it in him anymore to move on his own.

Those who carried him stood still for a while. As he briefly cracked his eyes open, he saw they were in a hallway of some kind. The people in the robes, faces obscured by thick hoods, remained like statues, waiting in front of a large, heavy door. Behind that door, the chanting continued. 

_Please accept our offering, merciful one.  
Extend your tentacles and accept this gift.  
Bless us, Embryonic Prince.  
May this offering satisfy your infinite maw._

Finally, the doors opened and he was carried through. Still in his less than alert state, he could nonetheless fell countless eyes on him. There were many emotions in those gazes, from nervousness to excitement to actual fear.

That last one made him chuckle. What was there to fear, at least from him? He was dead and no longer had any incentive to kill anymore. 

So he bore the stares. It took little effort on his part. He was so tired of all of it. He’d done his duty to the Church and died while doing so. Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to simply slumber. 

Eventually, the crowd turned away from him again. There was a short silence, heavy and awkward, as all of them exchanged looks. There was a set of customs here, clearly, but it was almost as if those performing it had long forgotten. 

A good few moments past before, at last, they proceeded again. A lone voice rose from the ground, commencing the alien hymn with cold conviction. The others followed and soon, the room once again swelled with chants. 

_Please accept our offering oh merciful one.  
Feed and grow now, our Prince.  
Arise and devour Oblivion hence.  
May this offering sate your growing bulk._

In the distance, there was another sound. Heavy stone scraped across a floor made of sand and rock. He could hear the grunts of efforts from the ones that pushed it. It sounded like they were opening a gate of sorts. A gate to what, he wondered?

Again, he was moved forward and suddenly, he could feel how two people gripped him by his wrists and ankles specifically. The started to swing him, gently so, rocking him with a sideways motion. Meanwhile, the chanting continued once more. 

_Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit.  
Magg-a-rathala!  
Magg-a-Nutaggon!  
Praise be to Gyub, Lord of the Pit._

The bizarre hymn was now joined by other sounds. A few of them started to stomp their feet. It was haphazard at first, but others quickly joined into an unsettling rhythm. Here and there, he heard a shriek being uttered as if the person uttering it was in trance. Within moments, the room came alive with clapping, stomping and cheering and the shrillness of the noise was what fully brought him to his senses.

What were these people doing to him? Who were they exactly? Figments of his imagination? A purgatory of his own making? Or were these perhaps demons of some sort, coming to take him to his eternal punishment?

That last thought, one he had dismissed previously, suddenly seemed impossibly real… He was dead, but he was conscious as well and these people definitely seemed real enough. A sliver of fear, one he hadn’t felt in decades, now took over every inch of his being.

Immediately, he started to squirm, finding his voice after his period of inertia. He screamed at these people, demanding who they were and what they were doing with him. To leave him be. To let him go and not to harm him. 

He yelled at them and pleaded, but he didn’t manage to keep it up for long. The two people holding him started to swing him faster and faster. Violently rocking left and right, his head started to swim and he could feel nausea settle in his stomach. Even so, he still called out at them, even as bile threatened to escape his throat, but his voice was drowned out by the ever louder choir of chanters. 

_Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub.  
Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub.  
Praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub, praise be to Gyub._

Then, at the end of the chant and halfway through another plea, the assassin was released. He was flung forward, only to find himself pulled down by gravity seconds after. He screamed as he plummeted down a pit, only to be cut off when his back hit the ground once more.

Instantly, a surge of pain went through his body and he found himself unable to move. It took him a few moments to realize, much to his relief, that nothing was broken even if that didn’t take the edge of the stinging agony he now felt in his back and legs. Using whatever strength he could muster, he attempted to flip over and use his hands to raise himself up. Yet whatever else he planned to do instantly left his mind the moment he looked into the shadows.

He would have screamed once more, were it not that all his senses left him that very instant. In front of him, mere feet away, was a creature that he was certain would even make a Great One reel. An abomination, even though that word alone couldn’t even begin to cover it.

The being was rather embryonic in appearance, reminding him very much of those dead, mutated specimens kept at the Research Hall, except alive and even more grotesque. A million tentacles, holding the middle between cephalopod appendages and humans hands, slithered in each direction grasping and searching. The parts not covered with scales had thick hair or additional cat-like eyes. Its head was somewhat humanoid in shape, except stretched over a far too large top half of the face with those same eyes, making it look like a parody of humanity, while below it, a circular mouth filled with teeth opened up like a lamprey’s. 

Letting out inhuman moans, sounds of joy and satisfaction almost, it slithered towards him, those incongruous hands grasping for him. It was all too clear to Brador what his predicament was then and there. The hooded figures above worshipped this…thing and he was chosen as the latest sacrifice to it. 

Not an inch of his body moved as he watched the abomination descend on him. What else could he do? There was nothing but the walls of this pit, too high and too steep to climb. There was only him and this thing, which would no doubt consume him alive and screaming.

Everything seemed to happen almost more slowly. He could only watch in morbid fascination how the thing moved every closer, its hungry mouth making lewd sucking motions while black drool dribbled from it. The hands came in from all sides like serpents, rearing as if to challenge and toy with their prey. It was a sight that scared him like a little child, yet he found himself unable to look away.

This was Hell…

He couldn’t be convinced otherwise now. This pit was not one of flame, but punishment for his sins nonetheless. Instead, Hell had taken on the phantoms of his mind, his visions of Great Ones lurking in the Great Cosmos beyond only more nightmarish. He’d been a hunter of all his life, of beast and man. Now, an eldritch monster would consume him.

A flicker of metal.

Brador wasn’t sure why his paralyzed mind suddenly caught onto that. It made no sense for it to divert elsewhere when he was about to meet his end. Yet it was and he found himself actually looking, only for a small gasp to leave his mouth. Strewn around him were weapons of every kind, as well as armor, boots and many other items for which a monster would have no need.

He didn’t doubt for a moment that these had belonged to other sacrifices. Perhaps a soldier or a bandit or another poor sod they had thrown in here without bothering to identify them. Yet as those hands came closer to him as well as the greedy mouth, the backstories didn’t matter one bit to him. Instead, his fear was rapidly melting away and replaced by another emotion that was just as primeval.

Survival. 

Faster than he thought he could ever move, he reached down and clasped his fingers around a nearby mace, black as night with red veins on it. The material was bizarre and it didn’t look anywhere as fierce as his own Bloodletter had, but that mattered not. It would have to do. 

Using all his fury and strength, he swung at those appendages nearest to them. Within seconds, they were crushed between his weapon and the wall behind him, leaving a splatter of foul-smelling ichor. A deafening cry of pain nigh shattered his eardrums right after, but rather than annoy him, the sound made him giddy.

He’d just hurt the thing. Physically hurt it and turned some of its tentacles to mush. It wasn’t much, but to him it meant all the world. He turned to the abomination, this mockery of life, and smiled. If it was going to kill him, he was going down swinging a weapon and drawing every drop of blood he could get. 

His lips drew back into a snarl, baring his white teeth like a wild animal. “You want to consume me? Well, you will have to make an effort!” 

The thing, “Lord Gyub”, might not even understand what he was saying, but it accepted his challenge all the same. Letting out an incomprehensible war cry, it darted in his direction like a stampeding herd of horses. A million limbs shot in Brador’s direction, ready to tear him apart and destroy him then and there as vengeance for the injury.

The assassin, however, was far faster than his sluggish assailant. He charged now confident by his small bite of success, and continued to ferociously swing at the monster. His boldness started it and soon, it was raging in fury again as he bashed out some of its sharp teeth.

The creature’s retaliation was swift. Soon, Brador could only run to evade those bloody jaws, scrambling to put distance between himself and the being’s maw. From all sides, he was beseeched by tentacles that seemed to have grown claws all of a suddenly. It was like dodging a constant rain of spears and just as difficult.

A few times, the abomination got lucky and he screamed as he could feel the claws bore in his side or leg. He would respond with a swing of his mace, crushing the offender like a bug. The shrieks it released would delight him and he would push on, determined to make the fiend suffer before he’d be eaten. 

For the next hours or possibly longer, the two of them were locked in a battle of wills and blood. One sough to consume, the other to survive. Wounds were drawn, blows were exchanged. Curses were hurled in both human and eldritch tongue. Each one fought with a fierceness not of this world, if only to prove himself superior.

So long did the fight drag on that eventually, Brador could feel himself get tired. He was not alone. Gyub no longer seemed so lively either. Several of its tentacles were broken and crushed and its body was graced with many blows of his mace spurting thick ichor as a result. He’d repaid the fiend for any wound inflicted on his person and by now, he knew that when the thing finally ate him, he’d get no pleasure from it. 

As two eyes faced many, the both of them remained motionless but cautious, trying to gather their strength during this small interlude. Soon, the fighting would start again. Soon, a winner would be known. 

The quiet that followed was brief, but it was a painful and uncomfortable moment of tranquility. As the creature looked at him, hissing ferociously, the former assassin could practically sense the confusion and tension up above. He knew they didn’t dare actually look down in the pit, probably as traumatized by the look of this monster as he was. So instead, they waited a while, only to then optimistically continue their hymn. 

_Praise be to Gyub,  
Call to us, Prince!  
Sing your fell tune!  
Praise be to Gyub._

Their attempts to carry on with the ritual, however, didn’t work. Gyub merely roared in rage, its tentacles thrashing about and making the very walls of the pit shake. They snaked upwards, moving with intense fury.

Brador readied himself, only to realize in absolute shock that it wasn’t planning to attack him. Instead, it was probing the walls, trying to scale them with those bizarre limbs, its movements jerky and, more frighteningly, hungry. A chill went through the assassin’s body. 

Clearly, it was displeased with the offering its followers had brought him and now, he was looking for another meal for compensation.

Almost immediately, screams erupted above him and he was certain he could hear the melody of death and destruction above. It had clearly settled on its own worshippers for a sacrifice and their devotion clearly meant little in the face of eldritch hunger. He would have almost felt pity, had these bastards not thrown him in here again his will in the first place.

It was that moment of distraction that cost him. Suddenly, two of the tentacles grabbed hold of him and immobilized him. He thrashed around, clutching his weapon as he tried to escape. Yet just as he was sure the creature was going to eat him too, there was a flash and without warning, he found himself flung away and somehow, the pit’s walls disappeared. 

Flung like waste from a spider’s web, Brador found his eyes blurring. He kept falling, suddenly feeling weightless and fear once again taking over. He was getting dizzy with his head pounding from the strain, as well as the teary hymn that was now wailed above. 

_All hail Gyub, Lord of the Pit.  
All hail rebirth, day of our death.  
All hail Gyub, All hail Gyub._

The last part of that chant continued to linger, for minutes, perhaps hours after. As Brador found himself flung through the abyss of darkness, the appeals to Gyub echoing all around him. Begging, howling, appealing to the creature in the Pits not to be displeased with them for offering it unsuitable prey.

He didn’t know when the pleas started to mix with the sound of rushing water. After all, water couldn’t exist in the nothingness he seemed to down in. Yet at some point, the running liquid overtook it and suddenly, the former assassin was submerged in it up to his chin. 

He jerked, alarmed as the cold wetness bit into his skin. He moved his arms, looking for a surface to cling onto, but instead grasping water. His feet thrust out to find the bottom and when he found none, he started to flail. 

There was a pull in the water as he did, a deep current that tugged and tore at him. Soon, there were waves all around him, lapping at his skin, threatening to swallow them whole. The more he fought against the tide, the more it dragged him along until finally, his strength started to wane. 

Almost immediately, the current pulled him under and he found all air forced from his lungs. He struggled, desperate to breathe, only to feel the water rush in. He tried to break the surface, pushed by a primal instinct to stay alive. Yet the water was more powerful and it wasn’t long before the undertow tossed and turned him into disorientation, leaving him uncertain where the surface or the bottom was. His word turned black and with nothing left to do, he gave himself over to the inevitable.

It was most surely a cruel jest when, possibly a lifetime later, he found his eyes cracking open once more. He moved his head ever so slightly, groaning when it was chafed by what seemed like wet sand. In fact, every part of his body felt like it was covered in scrapes and bruises, blood trickling out at some places, and he felt numb and sore, save for the sense of water nipping at his feet.

A rasping groan left his mouth, alerting him to just how dry it was. Had the current carried him here? That seemed likely, but where was he? The last thing he remembered was being flung from the pit into some dark place. Had he been in a cave of some sort? With a river passing through it? 

He tried to move, but his body felt far too sore. He lay down again, cursing softly, deciding to wait it out a little. It was just as well. It gave him some time to try and determine what just happened to him.

There was no sign of Gyub here nor of his half-witted hooded worshippers. He supposed that was a good thing. He’d lost his taste of eldritch horrors as well as the people insane enough to actually revere them. Still, that didn’t provide him an answer for where he was now. Just how did he go from some pit into what looked like a fast-flowing river?

Truth be told, his now besieged mind only had one explanation. Especially after all the suffering he’d gone through and the pain he was in, much less after what he had just survived. If he was truly dead, then this was simply yet another stage of Hell.

He could feel himself becoming tremendously ill but he fought to keep from vomiting, for fear he might actually have to lie in his own bile. That would be a rotten way to go out again, if that was even a possibility here. At that very some moment, he also started to weep.

This was truly going to be his lot in life, or the afterlife as it may. To be flung from place to place, forever tormented. To be subjected to the same fear that he had subjected others to, to be trapped in a Nightmare of his own. 

His stomach turned. He couldn’t even fault the powers that were for making that decision. Though he hadn’t chosen to become what he was, he’d still done those deeds and others had suffered. It there was justice, they would be repaid. An eye for an eye. He supposed that was what he deserved. 

Then, his ears picked up on a sound, one that made him frown. Barking. Deep, excited bark, coming from a large dog. Very close by too. A shiver went through him and instantly, the vision of a hellhound came to mind.

However, he was surprised and more than a bit relieved when he saw the creature as it suddenly ran up to him and started sniffing him. A wolfhound, but not one of the sickly mutts that roamed Yharnam. This animal looked healthy, well-fed and of friendly character. What more, it seemed to actually belong to someone, as he could suddenly make out a human figure approaching him as well. 

“What is it, Meeko? Another person? Is he still alive?”

Soon, he felt how the human being, a man he realized, had reached him and knelt beside him. He tried to lift up his head to look him in the eye, only to find himself skipping a breath. The man did the same and Brador instantly knew why. He recognized this supposed stranger and from the look on the man’s face, the recognition was mutual. 

Faster than a blink, the man with the dog had jumped back. In one swift motion, he grabbed a large black bow off his back, put an arrow on it and pointed it in his direction. That was the last piece of confirmation he needed as to his identity.

“Simon…”

He remembered Simon. How could he not? He’d been a fellow Hunter of the Church and then his most fearsome prey in the Hunter’s Nightmare. His superiors were eager to have him eliminated when he threatened to spill all their secrets and as always he’d obeyed. He had succeeded too, though it had easily been one of the hardest targets he’d ever put down, if only due to the man’s exceptional intelligence in evading him. 

Obviously, Simon remembered too, though mostly the part where he perished. “Give me a reason why I should not just put an arrow in your skull right now.”

It was an obvious threat, one Brador knew he wouldn’t hesitate going through with. If so, he was done for. He was quite certain he wouldn’t exactly dodge any projectile this time. To be fair, seeing in how much pain and how lost he was, he was fine with that. He grinned at the man, hoping to goad him.

“Go on then. Please do. Better to die of an arrow than to continue being here in Hell.”

He looked to measure the archer’s reaction, only to find him raising his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

The former assassin scoffed, wondering what there was to even understand. “You are dead. I killed you. Then I died and was fed to some monster. For me to see you here now means we’re both in Hell and I am paying for past deeds.” 

There was a brief pause, but for the former assassin, it was one that lasted far too long. He eyed Simon, who seemed to blink a few times. Almost as if he was certain all of this was a trick of some sort.

If anything, it made Brador feel even more frustrated. He was lying injured on the side of a river, with a weapon nowhere in sight and no reason to actually kill anyone. What point was there to tricking him? If anything, he was so tired and in pain, so broken by all he’d gone through, that he’d rather had the man kill him and be done with it.

Instead, however, Simon put his weapons away and responded, his voice laden with what seemed like irritation. “By the Divines, you are not dead or in Hell! Or anything that passes for it in this place. You are simply in a different place and very much alive. And damn it all! I cannot kill a man who is as utterly pathetic as you are…”

With a deeply annoyed sigh, he then walked over to him, the dog still at his side. Putting his hands around both his arms, the Hunter lifted him up, then putting one arm over his shoulder so he could support him more easily. The former assassin groaned in pain as the man forced him to walk, wondering just what on earth he was up to. 

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you to a place to mend your wounds. I do not want you to slowly die and have your carcass stinking up my riverside, attracting wolves, bears and other undesirables!” 

By now, Brador didn’t know what to think anymore. If the man said he was not in Hell and speaking the truth, then where was he? He used to be intimately familiar with the countryside of Yharnam, but he could tell that this place wasn’t anything like it. Nor was he sure that his former victim would be so merciful. For all he knew, he was simply leading him to a furnace to shove him into.

After a short while, however, they reached a small house up a hill. Simon opened the door and went in, his dog slipping in after them. He then set him on a chair and handed him a strange potion, telling him to drink it and that it would accelerate his healing. He accepted, albeit with hesitation, and was surprised to indeed find his wounds closing rapidly and the pain alleviating. He was even happier with the change of clothes provided for him, as his rough spun woolen shirt and breaches were torn and falling off him. 

Meanwhile, the Hunter set out to cook some food, though he ordered his dog, Meeko apparently, to keep an eye on him. The animal obeyed, scanning him for any sudden movements and while the assassin gathered that the dog was generally gentle, he didn’t doubt in the slightest that it could tear him to pieces if provoked. Thankfully, he had no intention of doing so and he also didn’t blame Simon for being cautious.

About half an hour later, food was served and what glorious food it was. There was cooked boar meat with buttered carrots, freshly baked garlic bread and for after the main course some honeyed nuts, all with mead to wash it down. A relatively simple meal, but Brador had to admit he was impressed. Whatever else he could say of the harrowed Hunter, he did know how to cook.

He didn’t hesitate to tear off a chunk of the bread and stuff in his mouth, followed by anything else within reach. It had been too long since he had eaten anything, much less normal human food, and besides sating his hunger, he was desperate to remove the lingering taste of beast flesh. He reveled in the small banquet, savoring the feeling of this place where he was apparently safe and cared for. 

“I see you have lost your taste for Beasts…”

The former assassin paused just as he was about to bring some cooked carrots and meat to his mouth. It was only now, when pain and hunger no longer blotted out reason, that he became fully aware of the situation he was in. He’d just been saved by the very man whom he had once murdered, who frankly had no good reason to save him besides pity. He was now eating from his very table and the least he could do was afford his host the proper respect. Or at least, an attempt at amends, however impossible that sounded. 

“I suppose it means very little when I say I want to offer my regret for what happened between us…”

Brador wasn’t a fool. He knew fully well that a simple apology would not suffice for taking a man’s life. Still, a sincere act of contrition, even if it did little, seemed better than nothing at all. Even so, he could understand Simon was less than impressed.

The harrowed Hunter made a face. “Consider me rather niggardly with my forgiveness, yes. Dying in the stench of fish was not how I wished to end my life.”

The former assassin cringed. “I know and I am not excusing my own deeds, no matter how mad I had become. I only ask you to understand that it was not personal. That I didn’t hold any ill will against you then and I certainly do not now. Especially now my mind is my own again and I am no longer bound to that wretched bell.”

He was utterly honest in his response and much to his relief, Simon seemed aware of it as he sighed and drank. “It seems the Healing Church made both of us suffer then.”

Brador could only nod in agreement, only for another thing to enter his mind. “That they did… Are they here then? Back at the riverside, you said I’m not dead.”

His host shook his head. “No, you haven’t perished nor is the Healing Church here. This is an entirely different world, with different people and histories, one where the Church or Yharnam never existed or will exist.”

The former assassin cocked his head, more confused than ever. “I’m afraid I do not understand. I died in the Nightmare, then saw a monster, then came here. And what you tell me makes even less sense.”

There was a moment of silence between them, save for the soft sigh rolling from Simon’s lips. He picked up his bottle and drank again, meanwhile petting the dog at his side. He stared at nothing in particular, as if in thought, then turned to him again.

“Here is my proposition. I will explain to you all I can about this place we ended up in while we eat. Then I will provide you some provisions, a weapon and some money so you can sleep at the inn in the town below this overlook. Then you will leave my home, to do what you will in this place, and I will never see you again.”

Brador didn’t answer immediately. After all, most hosts wouldn’t exactly voice a desire for their guest to leave, at least not phrased in such a direct way. The proposition would seem rude, but he noticed there was no actual malice in the harrowed Hunter’s voice. Simply a kind of tiredness, a need to let the past rest and leave it behind. A past he realized that he represented. He didn’t hate him, at least not anymore. He simply didn’t want anything that reminded him of his hard time in Yharnam around, least of all the man who killed him. 

Frankly, he couldn’t blame him, but he still was a little frightened. He was alone now, away from anything he’d ever known. A whole world of possibilities, of which the Hunter would enlighten him before he’d have to leave the premises.

Still, he then realized, that wasn’t so bad. Simon didn’t need to forgive him. They had just made peace in their own way and he was still gracious enough to send him on his way with everything he’d need to look after himself. No matter their past, he wasn’t going to send him out unprepared. It was a good deal, as good as an assassin of the Healing Church could get from a former enemy. 

He smiled, genuinely this time. “Very well. That is something I can live with. Then tell me all you can and I thank you in advance for your hospitality as I will trouble you no more.”


	12. Dibella's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianna receives a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm sort of cheating with Arianna since she isn't really a Hunter or associated with the Hunter's Nightmare, but I really like her character and felt she deserved better than her awful fate in the game. Chapter was still tougher than I thought and I scrapped it entirely and started over at some point. 
> 
> Again, it's not clear what Gods the Forsworn worship besides some Daedra, but we actually find an intact Dibella shrine in one of their hideouts and they are very interested in the Sybil of Dibella to the point of kidnapping her. This seems to indicate they might worship Dibella as well, albeit perhaps a more lustful, primal and violent incarnation of her.

“It can’t be… This is a nightmare…”

Arianna could feel her mind come apart as she looked at the creature sitting at her feet. This…thing that had just wormed itself out of her insides, umbilical cord still connected to her. It was too horrific to describe in words, not human by any conceivable measurement, yet what truly unsettled her was its behavior. The thing was chirping at her, almost happily. Almost, as if she was its mother…

That thought caused her to nearly throw up. No, she couldn’t be its mother. She couldn’t possibly be. Her menses was only two days ago, on time as usual. What more, she hadn’t slept with a man ever since Yharnam had come to hunger for blood rather than flesh. There was no conceivable way she could be pregnant, let alone give birth to this, unless… Unless…

The curse… The curse of the Cainhurst family. That rotten design that started with her mother, Queen Annalise, when the immortality inflicted upon her twisted her mind into desiring a child from the Great Ones. A desire that pushed her away and led to the death of her kin when the Executioners descended upon them. The curse of their twisted blood, that molded them to the will of the Great Ones…

Yet instead of her mother receiving the lot she so wished for, it had fallen onto her? Why? Why her? She didn’t wish to be a mother, much less to this misshapen abomination. She had wanted nothing to do with any of the twisted things her family was involved with. Then why on earth did it fall to her?

She didn’t know and it was possible to even think of it. The sight of the creature and the unspeakable feeling of being violated by forces beyond her understanding was too much for her. She could feel her sanity fraying and tearing at the seams, until at last, she could not nothing but madly laugh.

So caught up was she in the madness that she barely even noticed the Hunter approaching her. The kind man who had brought her to this wretched Cathedral for her safety, but couldn’t protect her from these eldritch forces that had so abused her body. Had she still had her wits about her, she would have asked him to end it, though thankfully, he seemed to understand her predicament anyway.

The cool, sharp touch of the saw cleaver, as well as the dying shriek of the abomination, were utterly liberating as she was sent off into oblivion. The madness inside her unraveled as soon as she entered the great black expanse of nothing and she almost smiled. At least now, as she ceased to exist, she was free.

Yet she didn’t cease.

After a while, she found her mind and her thoughts remained though the blackness all around her didn’t let up. Instead, it seemed like she stood amidst a strange world of nonexistence, like underground tunnels so deep down there was not a ray of light to be found. She couldn’t even see her hands as she held them in front of her own face, the world around her so dark that she almost thought she had gone blind.

Then, there it was. Somewhere in the distance, a sound. Singing… A song sung by a beautiful and haunting voice. Arianna couldn’t explain why, but somehow, she found herself drawn to it. Whatever it was, whomever was producing that sound, she needed to reach it. Even in this darkness… Even if she was dead…

So she moved forward, as much as she could. Using her hands to feel her way around, she started to walk. She advanced rather clumsily, groping her way around for want of finding a way through. Progress was slow and many times she stumbled, but she nonetheless pushed through, determined to reach the source of the song.

It lured her through the dark, like a beacon of hope. It made her push on, no matter how scared, cold and alone she felt. She couldn’t explain how or why, but she somehow knew that if she reached that mysterious voice, something would change…

It felt like hours before she could finally hear it come closer. At that point, she was practically crawling on all fours, gripping at the floor just to move forward. She felt out of breath yet somehow kept going, creeping forward inch by inch until, at last, there was light…

It was so bright she could feel her eyes sting and tear up. She shielded them with her arms, trembling, taking deep breaths as she waited to become accustomed. Meanwhile, she bathed in the warm glow of sunlight and she happily breathed the fresh air and scent of flowers and trees. Wherever she had ended up, compared to the stench of Yharnam and the dank caves, this was heaven…

Just as she started to revel in that notion, she could suddenly feel a shadow fall over her. Immediately, she looked up warily. In front of her stood a tall woman, dressed in revealing clothing. Her hair was long and silky, seemingly spun from gold, and her form was thin yet voluptuous. It was easily one of the single most beautiful women Arianna had seen in her life.

The woman smiled, then reached out to offer her hand. “Welcome to my humble abode, Arianna of Cainhurst.”

The instant she heard that response, the prostitute sat frozen and gaped at her. “H-how do you know my name?”

Her shocked question was met with a smile. “I have been expecting you.” 

Again, she offered her hand to help her up and this time, Arianna numbly accepted. She rose to her feet and allowed the woman to lead her. It was only now that she finally took notice of her surroundings and she stared in absolute awe.

The garden she was looking at would have paled those of Cainhurst Castle, even in its heyday. It was filled with the most wondrous flowers, plants and trees, growing in such shapes and patterns that no gardener’s hand could replicate them. Here and there were basins and fountains made of lily-white alabaster, the imagery carved from it each more…suggestive than the last. She was led to large one in what seemed like the heart of the garden, amidst flowerbeds and beautiful gnarled trees with red, white and pink blossoms. 

Beside the structure were intricately carved chairs and a table, set with a scarlet tablecloth and precious silverware. The woman motioned her to sit and she wordlessly obliged. It was only when she started to pour wine into their goblets and offered it to her that she finally found her voice again.

“Who…who are you even?”

Her host smiled. “You may call me Dibella. I am what you might call a Goddess, though I doubt you know me. Though in my world, I am oftentimes worshipped by those practicing your profession.”

She quietly took in the information. She recalled dying and now she was meeting a supposed deity, though not one that seemed awfully judgmental of her profession. That was a relief, she supposed. That was, if any of this was even real and not just a pathetic dying hallucination. 

Despite herself, Arianna chuckled wryly, not even slightly hiding her skepticism. “I am at the table of a God of Whores? I suppose that lot suits me. So what is it that dead whores do then if they meet with you? Do we retire or do we simply go off to a great golden brothel in the sky?”

Dibella laughed loudly. “I admire your wit, Arianna, but no. I may be worshipped by prostitutes, but it is not all I stand for. I am the Divine of physical love indeed, but my sphere is also beauty, art, creativity and the little things in life. But enough about me. I am a Goddess who likes a story and something tells me you have a most fascinating tale to tell.”

The prostitute took a sip of her wine and looked her over. “You knew I was coming, yet you don’t know the story of my life? A depressing tale at that?”

The deity giggled. “The world you are from is not mine. I can tell much from your soul, yet your life is not known to me. Would you care to share it with me while we enjoy a pleasant meal? A tale is still a tale, be it happy or sad.”

All Arianna did to that was shrug. “Very well. It is not like I am going anywhere.”

So, while enjoying some lovely beverage and dining on some roasted capon with mushrooms, she started talking. She told of her of her life at Cainhurst Castle, of her late father and her mother Annalise. How she learned of the curse and how it warped her family, how their dealings slowly got darker and more deranged. She told of how she fled home and sold her body, then her blood when Yharnam started to warp as well. She even spoke of the night of the Hunt and the absolute terror she experienced as her body birthed an eldritch monster.

She hadn’t meant to cry at that last part and shame filled her when she did suddenly find tears running down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them off, quietly apologizing to her host. Apparently, even death had not yet made her immune to the horror of the situation. 

Dibella, however, flashed her a sympathetic smile. “You have met with a terrible fate, have you not? Someone like you did not deserve it.”

A soft, sad laugh left Arianna’s mouth in response. “Most would disagree with you on that. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore. I am gone now, with no one left to mourn my passing.”

“Would you not like to change that if you could?”

The prostitute lowered the bite of food she was about to eat and looked at her. Just what was the Goddess getting at? Was she seriously offering her a chance to live again? To start over, as if the terrible events in Yharnam never happened? She had to admit that was tempting. As liberating as death had been in her mad state, she would very much prefer to be alive and sane again. 

“Could…could that be done?”

The Divine chuckled. “Well, yes, though I will not be able to return you to the world from whence you came. I can only bring you to the world where I am worshipped. Which is a lot less…developed than where you come from.”

There was a hint of apology in her voice, but the prostitute found she couldn’t care less. Frankly, she didn’t really care just where she was sent to as long as it wasn’t a place where the Healing Church held any sway. Even if it was a place that never heard of a pistol and simply fought with swords and shields.

Arianna simply scoffed. “And look what that development has brought me… No, I think a life for away from Yharnam would suit me well. So do your worst, my Goddess. I think I will manage.”

Her answer had the Goddess pause, only to then smile. “You definitely are a daring one. Very well then, I will send you from this place to my temple in a city named Markarth. You will wake up there and this will all feel like a dream. I shall speak to my Sybil and tell her who you are, so she can help you further.”

She got up, walked towards her and Arianna felt a soft kiss on her brow. “Farewell, Arianna of Cainhurst. May you find what you are looking for in this new life.”

Within seconds, the prostitute could feel her eyelids become heavy and soon, she found herself drifting off, the garden and Goddess fading from view. There was a strange force all around her, seemingly drawing her soul away to a new and unknown place. She didn’t fight it, only hoping that this new journey she was embarking on would be an exciting one. 

“Arianna? Arianna, are you okay?”

Small hands shaking her shoulder were what finally brought her back to the living. She murmured softly as she opened her eyes again. Hovering above her was the face of a little girl, fuzzy at first was swiftly growing clearer the more she returned to consciousness. Once it fully got through to her, she frowned. 

“Am…am I in the temple of Dibella?”

The little girl smiled. “Yes, you are! I’m Fjotra. I’m the Sybil of Dibella. Okay, not yet, but I will be when I grow up! Here, I got you some clothes!”

Arianna was just about to ask why she would need clothes when she noticed she wasn’t wearing any at all. She eagerly reached out for the undergarments and robes the girl provided, putting them on her person. As she did, she started to look around, realizing she was in front of some shrine. A strange structure shaped like an alien flower stood on top of it and she vaguely sensed the same energy as from the dreamlike garden. Clearly, the Goddess had kept her word. 

As soon as she was dressed, Fjotra grabbed her hand and smiled. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the others!”

Thus started easily the most interesting time of Arianna’s already eventful life. For the next few months, she stayed at the temple of Dibella and started to learn about this fascinating new world she had been thrust into. She learned about the Goddess of this temple and the other Divines, Tamriel and Skyrim, about Markarth, the Reach and its bloody history and about the Forsworn, rebellious Reachmen, that haunted the roads and ruins beyond. She gained all that knowledge and more, as she slowly started to carve out an existence for herself in this strange place.

Most of her time was spent working in the temple. It fell to her to cook the food for the priestesses, keep the temple clean, look after Fjotra when the priestess couldn’t and count and manage any donations. It was hard work, but she never complained. She was glad to have a roof over her head and she was intent on doing her very best until she could figure out what else she was going to do. 

Hamal, the head priestess, had offered her a few times to become a member of the temple, stating she was beautiful, artistic and smart enough to make a proper member of their clergy. As kind as the offer was, Arianna turned it down every time. While she knew by now that the Skyrim priestesses of Dibella didn’t engage in ritual prostitution even if they did have the odd fling behind closed doors, she wanted a different life this time, one that allowed her to do a bit more than espouse the virtues of physical love. 

Eventually, she got her chance. Apparently, there had recently been a death in the Silver-Blood family, the most powerful clan in Markarth. Thonar Silver-Blood and his wife had died at the hands of the Forsworn, leaving the business side of their family in tatters, so much so that even the steward of older brother Thongvor was unable to sort out the mess. As it was a public secret that the family got its fortune through questionable means, they needed someone who was both smart and discreet to help them make sense of it. 

Having proven her skill with finances and with a vote of confidence from the Priestesses of Dibella, Arianna had come to the Treasury House to offer her services. With her silver tongue and swift mind, she easily convinced Thongvar of her use, though she had no doubt her appearance may have also played a part. Not that it mattered, as the man was happy to hire her as long as she managed to pull his family’s finances back together.

It indeed proved a daunting task. Thongvor may have been aware that some of his brother’s dealings were questionable, but he clearly didn’t realize just how many. Every time she uncovered something, another shady operation reared its ugly head. She remembered how the man practically fainted when she figured out his brother had been in league with the Forsworn and he had claimed that nothing in the world could save his family now.

Truth be told, she wondered a few times if she should actually leave him to his fate. She had known from the start that the Silver-Blood family had questionable means of attaining their wealth, but this was not an understanding with the Thieves’ Guild or fudging some numbers. These were cases of political assassination, assault and extortion, as well as slavery and slave trade to obtain cheap labor in the silver mines. It disgusted her to her core and frankly, she wanted nothing more than to walk away. Still, knowing what she did now, she doubted if she really could, so she sat tight, somehow feeling her time would still come. 

Arianna had refused to give up so quickly and her diligence paid off. For every problem that came up, she found a solution, bartering with money, goods and simple politics, and it wasn’t long before Thongvor noticed. Where he once considered her a mere employee, she was swiftly becoming a confidante, even though she suspected he might want a bit more as well. Soon, she found herself with great access to the fortune and her employer’s complete trust. He left his most delicate business matters to her while he handled the politics and kept her informed of everything that happened in the Understone Keep. And what things he told her indeed…

The Forsworn, the ever-present bogeyman of the Reach, had apparently declared their intention to lay down their arms. Madanach, their fearsome leader, had apparently been killed by a follower of his. Since then, a tribunal of seven women called the Fire Witches had taken over. Horrible women, the rumor claimed, who saw the future in the flames and either devoured children or fed them to the fire. Yet what angered Thongvor even more than their mere existence was their political designs. 

He’d been in the Understone Keep when the Jarl received a letter from these women. In it, they claimed they had founded their own city of Reachmen over the old ruin of Arkngthamz, named Eaglehill after their historical leader Red Eagle. They wished to cease hostilities against Markarth and the Nords, even extending an offer of trade. They offered condolences for the deaths Madanach’s reign had caused and stated that while they bore their old enemies no ill will, they would defend their new home if they had to.

To Arianna, that hardly sounded problematic, but Thongvor thought differently. He considered this a provocation on their part, one he would not stand for. The Forsworn needed to pay for what they had wrought upon the Nords of this land. He would gather all the forces the Silver-Blood money could buy and he would march up to their rotten new city, burn it to the ground and then feed the Fire Witches to the flames they so loved. Those who remained were fit to toil in Cidhna Mine. 

Her first instinct had been to discourage that idea. After all, why antagonize an enemy who was willing to leave you be and actively trying to make amends? Thongvor, however, had refused to listen to her. He told her that for all her wonderful counsel, she was wholly ignorant in this matter. This was a matter of Nord pride and justice and he was not going to stop until the murderers of his brother and sister-in-law were dead. He had left the next day with his equally bloodthirsty steward Reburrus Quintilius and bodyguard Yngvar and she had been helpless to stop him.

In his absence, Arianna simply continued her work. She looked after the Silver-Blood finances and ensured everyone in their employ stayed in line. The days went by rather slowly, but she did as she was told until her employer would return. At least, that had been the plan. 

She practically jumped when Rhiada, Thongvar’s secretary, burst into the room where she was working, pale as a sheet. For a moment, she thought the heavily pregnant woman was about to give birth then and there, but her distress seemed to have another reason entirely. She was practically shaking on her legs, her voice quivering as she spoke.

“Thongvor… Thongvor’s army is back… They’re marching through the gates right now. There…there are so few of them left…”

Almost immediately, Arianna dropped what she was doing and rushed out of the Treasury House. She looked down the side of the mountain on which the city was built and her mouth fell open. Limping into the city was a large host of warriors and even from where she stood, she could see they were in bad shape. 

She hurried over, her heart standing still as she got close enough for a better view. The men and women in the party looked as if they had gone through Oblivion. There was not a single of them that wasn’t bloodied at the very least and the majority of them had injuries that would have made her retch had she not seen worse things in Yharnam. A single look at their faces said it all. This was not a parade of hard-earned victory. This was a demeaning march of defeat.

Then, among the crowd, she spied a bloodied but familiar face and she ran up to him with Rhiada on her heels. “Yngvar! Yngvar, what happened?”

Yngvar growled as he spat red phlegm through broken teeth. “The Forsworn… We reached their city walls and Thongvor issued his challenge. They told us…beseeched us to go back. He persisted, started the attack. They routed us, killed those who refused to flee…”

Arianna quickly produced a cloth and tried to wipe his face. “What happened to Thongvor? And Reburrus for that matter?”

He pulled her away from her touch, hissing from his stinging wounds. “Thongvor’s dead, Arianna. He and Reburrus and most of the people he brought for this damned venture. And here I am, having fled like a coward… My ancestors weep in Sovngarde…”

She rolled her eyes. “Oblivion take Sovngarde, Yngvar! There is no point in dying during a senseless skirmish. Come to the Treasury House and we will patch you up. Then we’ll figure out what to do from here.”

Before he got a chance to protest, she grabbed his arm and dragged him back. There, she sat him on a chair and got to work cleaning him up. This time, he was too stunned by her determination to resist. She told Rhiada to remain seated, not wanting to exert herself during the last few weeks of her pregnancy. She obeyed, but seemed far too nervous to sit still.

“What…what do we do now?”

Arianna gave her a sideways glance as she started taking care of Yngvar’s wounds. “We pay off the mercenaries and warriors who survived, as well as the families of the dead who come knocking. Then we need to find whomever Thongvor designated as his heir.”

Almost immediately, Yngvar started laughing. It sounded bitter and humorless, unsuitable for the situation. Both women turned to him. He tried to stop as he saw their annoyed stares, but still couldn’t suppress a chuckle. Rhiada frowned. 

“What's so funny?”

The mercenary grinned his damaged teeth bare. “There is no need to look for an heir. Thongvor has no other kin left, not even a bastard child or distant cousin and I can know. Besides, he already made his choice known to me and Reburrus and even put it to paper in his safe. He left his fortune to you, Arianna.”

Any frantic thoughts bouncing through the woman’s head instantly crashed to a halt. She gaped at Yngvar wide-eyed and head cocked, certain he was jesting. One look at the dark expression on his face, however, told her he was most definitely not.

“Me? Why?”

The man snarled at her. “By Ysmir’s arse, I don’t know. You have been here the shortest of all of us, wormed your way in to magically make all his troubles go away. I don’t know what you did besides managing the Silver-Blood business, but he decided to give an outsider like you his fortune and the likes of us only a handful of change.”

She didn’t miss in the slightest what he implied with that and frankly, she didn’t like it one bit. Even now, she felt no shame in her previous profession, but she had earned her place in the Silver-Blood business with her intellect and politics alone. Whatever else Yngvar thought of her and she thought of him, whatever they thought of the will, she wasn’t going to stand for him insulting her abilities. 

She was about to say something when she saw how Rhiada practically turned grey, before sobbing softly. “He…left us next to nothing? After all this time? What…are we going to do? I’ve been alone since Eltrys died. Without a way to eat, what will become of me and the little one? I…”

Then and there, Arianna felt herself falling silent. She knew the woman wasn’t lying. Her salary working for the Silver-Blood clan had always been meager and she’d had to endure Thonar’s harassment besides. After her husband Eltrys died, things had become even harder and now, with a child on the way and her employer dead, she faced the slum that were the Warrens, a rotten, disgusting vault converted into cells where the poorest and most wretched of Markarth lived… 

Arianna could feel her fists ball, though her voice remained calm. “It doesn’t have to be that way…”

The two of them looked in her direction in surprise, after which Yngvar let out a mocking laugh. “What, you intend to forfeit your newly acquired fortune?”

She regarded him coolly. “No. I quite like having no financial worries. And while I appreciate that Thongvar trusted me with his inheritance, I disagreed with a lot of his methods, so I shall not hesitate to go against his wishes. Now that I am in charge, things are going to be very different around here. No more assassinations or sabotaging of political enemies or competitors. No more blackmail or extortion. No more campaigns against the Forsworn, much less the Reachmen. And Cidhna Mine will no longer be operated by slave labor.”

The mercenary frowned. “You are insane.”

She scoffed at him. “Perhaps, but it is my money now and I can choose to use it how I see fit. Still, I need good people by my side. Someone to protect me, someone to arrange meetings and keep the Treasury House running. People whom I intend to see properly fed, clothed and well off, as well as their extended families.”

Knowing she had their attention, she turned to them both. “Work for me and I will see to it that you are well-rewarded. You, Yngvar, will never want for a drink or other needs. You, Rhiada, will never have to worry your child goes hungry. If you do not want to, I will not stop you either. I will give you thrice the sum you’re owed in the will and you are free to leave.”

There was a long silence after she said this, so long that even she was growing uncomfortable. She looked at the other two servants and found a flurry of emotions on their faces. For a moment, she wondered if she had said the wrong thing and expected them to just turn around and leave. After several tense moments, however, Rhiada stepped forward, smiling. 

“Ever since you came to work here, you have been nothing but kind to me. You never looked down on me being a Reachwoman. So I trust you and I’ll be happy to work for you instead.”

Despite herself, Arianna smiled a little, only for it to fade when Yngvar growled at her. “Why should I work for you? You’re an outsider, an Imperial at that. You’re planning to tear down everything Thonar and Thongvor have built, all from a misguided sense of compassion. Well, in Markarth, there is no place for such weakness. You’ll be eaten alive within weeks. In fact, I’m wondering why I shouldn’t just save you the pain, strike you down myself and then take what I want from the vaults…”

With those words, he suddenly stomped forward, one arm reaching back to grab the steel warhammer off his back. Rhiada shrieked and Arianna stood frozen as the man descended upon her. She watched how he raised his weapon in the air, but before he could do so much as move another muscle, she struck.

Within seconds, she had pulled a dagger from her bosom and calmly laid the sharp end against the giant mercenary’s throat. The cold prick of steel was enough to shake him to reality and he stilled, eyes wide as he stared at her in shock. She had seen that look many times before, back when she was a prostitute and a particularly violent client had not foreseen these small, hidden measures of self-defense. And just like with those disgusting man, she stared right back, her voice cold as ice. 

“You won’t. Because I’ll have slit your throat ear to ear before that hammer even falls down. Strength comes in many forms and whatever you may think of me, don’t you for a second mistake my kindness for weakness. As you said, blood and silver runs this town and I’m perfectly capable of producing both myself.”

The look of bewilderment on Yngvar’s face grew even greater and for a brief moment, he seemed lost. She didn’t back down, instead pressing the dagger even deeper just to show that she meant business. She remained like that for a while until, suddenly, a sound came from the mercenary’s throat. A chuckle at first and then, genuine laughter. 

“Well, I'll be damned. You may be an Imperial and an outsider, but it looks like you have the heart of a Nord…”

Suddenly, he moved again and she saw how he put away his warhammer. All anger seemed gone, almost as if there had been little of it in the first place. It was then and there that Arianna realized he likely never even intentioned to actually kill her. He’d had tried to intimidate her, tested her to see if she was indeed a leader worth following. From the looks of it, she had passed that test and his words indicated so. 

“I think you may be cut out for this after all. Very well, I too will stay in your employ for a while. If only because I’m curious and I think it won’t be boring. So, what now?”

She didn’t answer right away. It still took her a moment to realize just what position she had gotten herself into. Here she was, a noblewoman and a prostitute, once a beggar stranded at the temple of Dibella, now an heir to one of the greatest fortunes in Skyrim, along with all its privileges. It was a bizarre situation, but somehow, she felt no fear. In fact, she quite liked this situation and with two loyal people by her side, she was determined to make the most of what was given to her. 

“Good. Then let us start with paying off the mercenaries, then go over all our channels of income. We have a lot of work to do.”

The next six months indeed proved that statement true. The dead of Thongvor and news that his fortune was left to an unrelated employee of his got out quickly. Many who had trembled before the Silver-Bloods presumed they could easily walk over her and man indeed gave it a try. Some cleverly placed sanctions, pulling some strings with contacts or quick visit from Yngvar quickly proved such rumors untrue and it wasn’t long before all subordinates and business partners of the Silver-Bloods were back in line.

Her next order of business was getting rid of the slaves in Cidhna Mine, as well as ending the extortion of local Reachmen. That had been quite the task, as it required commissioning and building a new prison on the edge of town and paying proper workers. This required finding new sources of income, both legal and succesful. 

Thankfully, her charm and business acumen allowed her to expand the locales to which the Silver-Blood shipped their silver and she worked closely together with the local silversmiths to also produce more elaborate products. She started to invest in the East Empire Trading Company, fisheries in Riften and a lovely new cider brewery in Winterhold, as well as several other businesses around Skyrim and beyond. She also found her way as a loan shark, though she was sure to kept the interest rates feasible and honest. She even decided to take the risk and start a trade with merchants in the newly established Eaglehill, much to the surprise of the Reachman merchants there as well. While she received quite a few threats from the local Nord populace for trading with the enemy, this quickly died down when new wealth started to flow into Markarth.

Whatever grudges remained quickly died down when it became clear just what she used that newly acquired wealth for. Business in Markarth was booming by money being poured into trade and investments, its crime levels started to decline as corrupt guards were pushed out of office and the Warrens were converted to a storage house while its inhabitants were provided cheap but proper homes to live in. With the Forsworn staying in their new capital and Arianna connections to its merchants, the roads were growing safe once more, leading to a happier populace with much less tension.

Arianna found herself reaping the benefits of this as well. Where once she was looked at warily by everyone except the Priestesses of Dibella, she now saw smiles wherever she went. People were friendly to her, some even deferential. Shops begged for her custom and artists for her patronage. She even had the occasional suitor now and while Thongvor always complained that the Silver-Blood family was never heard, she had Jarl Igmund’s full attention and was a regular guest at his table. She was no longer a strange drifter; she was Arianna Argenteus, a surname she had chosen for herself, heir of a fortune and the one would had made the city bloom. She never went out of her way to remind others of it, but they clearly didn’t forget.

To her, however, it often remained strange. To once again be dressed in fine clothes, dine on exquisite foods and have overflowing coffers at her disposal. She was a noblewoman once more, revered and influential, but where once upon a time she didn’t know any different, she now made sure never to forget where she came from.

Her chambers at the Treasury House were comfortable but plain, with little in it that she didn’t actually need or use. She loathed the idea of spilling her resources, rather spending them on people who needed them far more. In fact, the only indulgence she had allowed herself was a shrine to Dibella, a small means to privately revere the Goddess who had given her this brand-new life and the changes she was able to bring to this town. Changes that were noticed by more than just the populace or the Divines above…

After another long day of running errands and cutting deals with new clients with Yngvar in tow, Arianna was more than a little surprised when suddenly a host of city guards approached her. Worried by this strange development, she inched back and she could already feel how her bodyguard drew his warhammer. The guard eyed him warily but nonetheless spoke to her.

“Arianna, there are important guests at your home. The Jarl has tasked me to inform you of this at once.”

His remark caused her to frown. “If there are important guests in _my_ home, how come I’m not informed of it? Rhiada surely would have told me.”

The man looked uncomfortable. “They came unannounced. They were to come to the Understone Keep, but they insisted to stop by your house first. They…it’s the women who now run the Forsworn in Eaglehill.”

A cold chill flowed through her body. The Fire Witches… They were here, in her house? Why? What did they want from her? No doubt they knew she had taken over the empire of one of their sworn enemies? Were they here to get her out of the way?

Still, she didn’t show her fear and responded calmly. “I see. I shall head there at once. Send word to the Jarl that I should arrive soon and station some of your guards by the door. Raise the alarm if I do not come out.”

The guard nodded and went off, allowing her to briefly exchange glances with Yngvar. She mouthed at him to go inside with her and he nodded, though it still felt like she was dragging a ball and chain as she made her way to the Treasury House. She hesitantly opened the door and after her bodyguard squeezed through first, she followed. 

Inside, she was immediately met with a rather uncomfortable-looking Rhiada. She stood behind the desk at the entrance as always and while Arianna was relieved to see she wasn’t hurt, she too seemed frightened and unsure. She tried to show her a reassuring smile, but courage actually eluded her as she proceeded in the house to meet her unexpected visitors.

She found them soon enough. Seven women, wrapped in cloaks, sat around her table. The ate a modest meal no doubt served by her secretary, looking almost as awkward as she did as they seemingly waited for her. With them were two armed men, likely their guards, and what looked like a servant. They looked in her direction and almost instantly, Yngvar jumped and drew his weapon again.

The two men responded in kind and the servant summoned a flame spell, shrieking on top of his lungs. “Don’t you dare touch a hair on my ladies’ heads. We will annihilate you where you stand!”

He took a step closer, but almost immediately, one of the Witches rose and spoke to them in a calm but decisive tone. “Calm down, Eingyi. Lady Arianna and her guard were merely startled and we _are_ unexpected guests in her house. Kirk, Quelarr, stand down. We are here to talk, not fight.”

Almost immediately, the men obeyed, sheathing their weapons. Arianna looked over her shoulder and motioned a hesitant Yngvar to do the same. Then she turned back to the women. The one who had risen took off her hood, revealing a black-haired beauty with golden eyes underneath. Strange, the blond woman thought, to see a fearsome young woman where she had expected a repulsive crone. The visitor bowed lightly, after which the other women removed their hoods and gave her a polite nod as well.

“So, you must be Arianna Argenteus. Forgive us for showing up unannounced; our visit here was not planned in advance. Please, do not be too harsh with Rhiada either. She has been hospitable to us and treated as with as much courtesy as the situation allows. I am Quelaag. My sisters and I lead the Forsworn Tribunal.”

Deciding that politeness was key, the blond woman afforded her a little bow as well. “No harm is done. I know who you are; I trade with your merchants in Eaglehill, though I’ve yet to have the pleasure of visiting. I bid you welcome, though I am curious as to the purpose of your visit.”

Quelaag smiled and she couldn’t help but notice just how soft and genuine it was on such a powerful woman. “We are here to negotiate peace with Jarl Igmund. Madanach ruined any chance of him coming to us to barter by murdering his father, so we conceded to come to him instead. However, we found he had not invited you to the summit and we felt you should be part of it. As such, we decided to stop by and personally extend invitation.”

Her tone suggested she was serious and she genuinely had no malicious designs, but her request still seemed odd to Arianna. “How so? I am a businesswoman. One with great influence, yes, but I am not a Thane. What point is there in me advising either side during this conflict?”

The Fire Witch smiled again. “You are heir to the Silver-Blood fortune and own most of Markarth. You have taken the seat of a cruel and corrupt family, yet have used his resources for benevolent goals. Even the Reachmen were not exempt of your generosity. If anyone could broker an agreement that satisfies both parties, it would be you. Though it is not the most important reason…”

Arianna gave her a confused look and Quelaag motioned to her bedroom, to the shrine of Dibella that was readily visible in the doorway. “Dibella, Goddess of Love, Beauty and Art… She is one of the few Divines my people also worship. She is the one that brought you here, no? To Markarth and to Tamriel?”

Within moments, the blond woman could feel an invisible hand tighten around her throat. This woman…this stranger she had never met knew she was not from here… How? How could she possibly…

The Fire Witch seemed to sense her question. “I have seen you in the fire. You are one who met with a terrible fate, who died and lived again. You are not alone. I too came here from a world unknown through the whims of strange Gods. So did my sisters and my brother. So did my servants and many others before you or me and many after.”

The words were spoken softly, shyly, with a deep sense of empathy and in spite of herself, Arianna couldn’t help but be touched. She had heard there were others like her, but she never had the time to investigate. To finally meet someone like her, someone who once felt as lost and frightened as she was, was something very special indeed. 

Quelaag seemed equally moved. “We are the same, you and I. Both souls who suffered and were stranded here, making a strange land and strange people their home. This is why I think we can bring an end to the conflict. We both have enough distance to centuries of struggle to look for a solution with logic, rather than emotion or desire for vengeance. Perhaps, that is all we need.”

Arianna quietly nodded. The dark-haired female had a point. There wasn’t a day in her life when she didn’t deal with the politics of the Reach and its bloody history. There wasn’t a day that a sin against a forefather wasn’t brought up and didn’t motivate the next bloody move. Scars ran deep and faded slowly, perhaps too slowly for some who had lived the actual fight. In the quagmire of bitter justice, the Fire Witch’s words were some of the most sound she had ever heard.

“So, will you accept my invitation, Arianna Argenteus? Shall we head to the Understone Keep together and bring peace to the Reach?”

Despite her professional tone, she sounded almost hesitant, but as far as Arianna was concerned, her decision was made. “Yes. Let us go there and finally put an end to a senseless war. I suggest you all finish your meal and we should head there. Though as a host, I must ask if there is anything else you need.”

Her guest showed her a small smirk. “Please, no jests about the slaughter or sacrifice of infants. It was funny at first in its ignorance, but it quickly got old. My sisters and I happen to like children and I do not mean ones charred to ash or braced in butter.”

Some of her sisters winced at that and Arianna could feel Yngvar do the same, but she found herself snickering louder than she should. She could at the very least appreciate the dark sense of humor of this woman. She was certain their time in the Understone Keep, deciding the future of the Reach, would be an interesting one indeed.

As she went to join them as the table, she cast another glance at her bedroom. The shrine to Dibella caught her eyes again, standing proudly as a reminder of her whole life here. She whispered a small prayer under her breath, once again thanking the Divine for bestowing her kindness on her, to allow her a second chance. 

Markarth was her home now and this city of blood and silver had become hers to shape. Here, she would no longer have to suffer like she did in Yharnam. Here, her body and mind were her own and she would no longer have to endure hardship or degradation. For that, she would be forever thankful.


	13. The Akaviri Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamamura regains his honor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Akaviri are a presumed extinct race in The Elder Scrolls (or at least, they intermarried with Imperials to the point of assimilating), who are the fantasy equivalent of (East) Asian people in our world and hail from the continent of Akavir. Understandably, a Japanese man like Yamamura would be mistaken for one. Additionally, some sources state that the Akaviri were "serpent-like". Whether they really had snake-like physical attributes or it's a stab against their personalities depends on which sources you read and it's deliberately vague (though any Akaviri ghosts in Oblivion seem completely human). Still, it explains the insults in this chapter.  
> Also, I know the katana-like weapon in Skyrim is called a "Blade's Sword", but Yamamura is not at home in Skyrim. To him, a blade with that design would be a "katana", so that's what he calls it.  
> As a person who proudly wears glasses herself (and prefers them over lenses or eye surgery), I'm sad Yamamura's glasses had to go (though his form in the Hunter's Nightmare has seemingly already lost them). Still, the world of TES has no glasses and I didn't want this to be a story where a near-sighted person is just stumbling around. So I got rid of them for practical reasons and nothing else. And yes, I am a fan of the Kill Bill movies. XD

Shrouded by night, but with steady stride.  
Colored by blood, but always clear of mind.  
Proud hunter of the church.  
Beasts are a curse, and a curse is a shackle.  
Only ye are the true blades of the church. 

He was repeating the mantra even now. Even though he’d long since died in Yharnam. Even though the impurity of the beast blood, one he’d seen too much of during his time in the League, had already driven him mad. Even though he was trapped in the Hunter’s Nightmare, sight blurred as his steel-rimmed glasses were lost long ago. Even though now, he had a suspicion he was dead even there.

Still, Yamamura had virtually nothing else left to cling onto. Just those words, his last anchor to reality. If he were to stop, to acknowledge that he was gone…that it was all over… He was certain he was to break then and there. 

Was this where it was going to end? After he had left his homeland of Japan to pursue the beast that killed his mother, did his end really come as he went mad in the dungeon of a Nightmare? Did his time on earth really ended so miserably?

He didn’t want to think about it. Not now. Especially not now. Not when he sensed a chilling dark closing in from all sides, threatening to crush him if he so much as looked at it. He’d be done for and he was not ready to accept it…

So he sat, hugging his legs and rocking back and forward, face buried into his knees. He continued to mutter the words over and over, intense shivers running over his back. By now, he was practically tripping over his tongue, slurring the phrases, but it was all he had to hold onto.

“Stop it.”

He barely even noticed the second voice as it reverberated through the space. Nor did he noticed that it sounded cold and stern, almost annoyed with him. Right now, he was certain the dark was coming for him and he was too afraid to admit to anything but his own terror.

“I said, stop it! There is no time for mad chanting!”

This time, Yamamura couldn’t ignore it. He looked up, turning to where the voice came from. Confusion hit him once it did.

Marching through the darkness was a man, one he was sure he had never seen before. He stomped through the endless black mist towards him, annoyance evident in every step. The man had reached him in seconds and grabbed his arm, violently yanking him to his feet. 

“Get up! There is something that you need to do!”

It was only now it occurred to Yamamura to actually struggle. He angrily yanked his arm back, causing the strange man to stumble. He received a glare in return, but the former Confederate was just too confused and annoyed to care.

“Who are you? What is this place?”

The stranger groaned. “There is no time for stupid questions! We have to go!”

He reached out again, only for the wanderer to step back. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.”

This only seemed to annoy the other man even further, but after a few seconds, he relented. “Fine. Let’s start with the obvious. You’re dead. Truly dead. As dead as the Kothringi of Black Marsh. In fact, that last one might actually be in your favor.”

Yamamura didn’t understand at least half of what this stranger said. He didn’t have to either. The part he actually wondered about was clear enough. 

His most frightful suspicions were confirmed. He was indeed gone, whatever remained of him having been cut down in the Hunter’s Nightmare. So, what came after that then? All he had to go on was what he had learned at home, so he decided to draw upon that.

“So…I have indeed passed on then. Is this Yomi then? Is this dark, gloomy place the afterlife?”

The man pursed his lips, the air escaping his mouth with an almost whistling sound. “Not quite. If anything, you’re on a threshold of sorts. You’re in a doorway, neither on one side nor the other. Though I plan to change that.”

The wandered blinked, feeling more confused than ever. So he was dead but not anywhere? That didn’t make sense. Even if he was indeed in a “doorway” of sorts, then it certainly was the biggest, darkest and most infinite one he’d ever witnessed. 

What more, this strange fellow just claimed he could help him step through. Honestly, that made him on edge. He didn’t like how pushy the man was with him, so he was damned certain he wanted some more answers before consenting to whatever plan he apparently had in mind.

“You…plan to change that? How? Who are you?”

For once, the man smiled. “A God, though in life, I was known by all as Cuhlecain. I was the ruler of the Colovian Estates once, the man who attempted to forge an Empire. Alas, I was killed before it could be brought to fruition, but my brave general, Talos Septim, carried on in my name and formed an Empire the likes of which had never seen.”

Yamamura frowned. He was no stranger to Empires, having traveled far and wide. He himself hailed from one, one that had a sun as its symbol. Still, this tale the stranger spun sounded like gibbering lunacy. 

“I have never heard of such an Empire.”

To that, he received a huff. “Of course not! You’re not from my world. But you will know! You will see! For I will send you there, all spry and alive again. At least, unless you plan on simply rotting away here…”

It was then and there that it fully got through to the wanderer that this…God, or whatever he claimed to be, was telling him he’d return him to live. If he wanted, of course. Yet he was skeptical about how much choice he truly had in the matter and even more so just where he’d end up. For all he knew, this Empire was as bad as Yharnam.

“Why would you want to send me to your world?”

“Well, this Empire Talos forged has not always been without threat or without forces trying to break it apart. In fact, some evil tongues even claimed Talos murdered me to obtain it, just to slander him. Such insolence. I was there when the Nightblades attacked us and he fought for me until he could fight no more. That cut he received on his throat… Only the grace of the Divines and sheer luck had him survive that…” 

It was there he noticed he was trailing off. “Forgive me. What I am trying to say is that a new threat has come to the Empire. The Aldmeri Dominion and their damned Thalmor. Elves. Think nasty skinny humans with pointy ears except thinking they descend from the Gods and should wipe humans from history. Their peace accord is nonsense! They’re biding their time! They are trying to take over the Empire and if we don’t act, they might succeed.”

If Yamamura wasn’t confused beyond reason, he sure was now. Empire. Aldmeri Dominion? Elves? Descendants from Gods and wiping humanity from history? Perhaps “confused” wasn’t even the word for it. If anything, he was gradually becoming convinced that this man was quite mad.

Even so, he decided to be polite. “I do not see how I come into this.”

He didn’t like Cuhlecain’s grin one bit. “That is exactly it. There is still hope. We can still go to war with these Altmer bastards and win. We need a little push to turn the tide. We need you.”

The wandered pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose, only to realize in irritation they were no longer there. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re a warrior. And what we need is a warrior like you, in the right place at the right time… And the way you look might just be an added advantage.”

Before he could stop it, a twinge of insult flowed through him. “What do you mean? There is nothing wrong with how I look.”

Cuhlecain shook his head. “I never said there was. It is rather that a people with your general appearance, the Akaviri, once lived in my Empire, but they are now either extinct, rarer than diamonds or have intermingled with other races. So if you were to show up there, it is certain to get the imagination running, both those of allies and enemies…”

He practically laughed as he said this, but to Yamamura, it was no laughing matter. Here he was, in a big, black void, separated from everything he’d ever known and loved, with only this…creature for company. This wretched being, who was making plans centered around him, without even wondering whether he consented to all this absurdity. 

He stepped in the man’s direction, almost threateningly, his voice almost a growl. “So…you want me to fight for a cause I barely even understand. And for what? So things will work out well for you? Well, this is my soul at stake, or whatever is left of it. I refuse to fight a pointless battle again.”

Cuhlecain didn’t respond right away. He turned to him, looking him over. For the first time, there was no sign of his previous urgency. He spoke calmly, deliberately and, most of all, with empathy.

“I know this all sounds strange and frightening. That it looks like I’m merely throwing you in the pit for a fight that’s not your own. That is not what I want. What I want is to right a wrong. You didn’t deserve to die, Yamamura. You are a warrior, a wanderer. The man who tracked a monstrous beast halfway around the world before slaying it. Who joined other beast slayer to combat impurity. A man who deserved to be a legend in his own right, yet instead died alone and mad…”

The tone of his voice very much indicated he was absolutely sincere in his sympathy and it was enough for Yamamura’s anger to somewhat subside. He watched the deity closely, wondering what would happen next. The former emperor sighed.

“My world is not decaying. Not as drab or maddening as the one you came from, even if it’s nowhere as advanced. It is beautiful, green, alive, strange but wonderful… You could have a good life there, a meaningful life. All I ask is some help in preserving it… Just… Trust me. Please…”

By now, any semblance of selfishness or superiority was gone from his voice. It was simply a plea. A request, to exchange one service for another. A service, the wanderer realized, that wasn’t even all that unreasonable.

He didn’t like the way his end had come. How he’d been locked away, left to insanity. He watched to see a blue sky again. Feel grass under his feet. He had that opportunity right here, offered to him by this man. He’d be a fool to squander it.

He looked at the deity, his voice even and determined. “Alright. I do not know what you have in store for me, but I also know I do not want to stay in this place, going crazy again in the dark. So bring me back. Bring me to your world. Have me live again, so I can save the place you love so much.”

It was all Cuhlecain needed to hear. The man smiled and walked up to him. He put a hand on his shoulder and Yamamura could feel a strange energy flow from it. 

“I will. I will bring you to Falkreath, where I once used to rule. When you wake up, you will find everything you’ll need. Then take the road west out of the city and follow it. You will know what to do when you see it. Good luck, Yamamura, and do become a legend this time...”

Almost immediately, a deep fatigue settled over the wanderer and he chose not to fight it. Somewhere, beyond the immediate sensation, he could sense something else. A feeling that there lay something beyond the dark and that he would see it very soon, if only he closed his eyes and stepped over that threshold…

The soft tittering of birds was what finally woke him from the deepest slumber he had ever known. He lifted his head, feeling more than a little disorientated. Still, he soon noticed a gray sky above him and a calm, misty forest all around him. Almost immediately, a small measure of happiness welled up in him.

He was back in the world of the living.

It was only after this that he realized a second curious fact. He could feel the absence of his steel-rimmed glasses, yet he could see clearly all the same. For a large part of his life, he’d been terribly nearsighted. Yet here he was, with perfect vision, seeing everything around him in utmost detail. It both shocked and excited him. Cuhlecain had actually managed to fix his eyes as well…

He jumped up, about to emit a cry of joy when he noticed he wasn’t wearing anything. Goosebumps spread over his entire body as the cold mist encased him and he shivered involuntarily. He let out a curse in Japanese, but just as he was about to worry about this development, he spotted something beside him. 

He quickly picked up what he quickly recognized as a bundle of clothes and slipped into them. With delight, he noticed that they were comfortable and fit him like a glove, but they were far from the only offerings. He also found a set of comfy boots, a bag of strange golden coins and, most importantly, a sword.

The sword especially was a beautiful thing. It reminded him of the katanas from his homeland, in shape and how it held, but the crafting material was unknown to him. It was sharp enough to split a hair, made of the finest quality. The intricate details drew him in and he would have stared at it for hours, were it not that he remembered just where he was and what he was meant to do here.

He looked around. If Cuhlecain spoke the truth, then he was near a town. Falkreath, if he memorized it correctly. He sure hoped he was. While he was now clothed and armed, he didn’t feel much for having to spend the night in this chilly, misty place.

Thankfully, it seemed the deity had spoken the truth. After a quick search, he could spy rooftops in the distance. Smoke rose from their chimneys and he could see people walking between the buildings. Excitedly, he went towards it, glad to see that so far, the deity hadn’t lied to him.

Falkreath was a small town and rather dreary, but after so long of being locked in a cell in the Hunter’s Nightmare, it was one of the finest things he’d recently seen. It had all the essentials as well; a store, a medicinal shop and a blacksmith, as well as a rather archaic but fine inn. 

He spent the remainder of the afternoon gathering supplies, putting the gold he was provided with to good use. He ignored the strange stares that he got from the citizens, simply being polite and going about his business. After he’d acquired everything he’d need for a longer journey, he retreated to the inn. His plan was simple: he’s ask for a map or at least some directions, then read some of the books he’d bought, get a meal and then enjoy a drink until it was time to sleep. The next morning, he’d leave Falkreath to go on his way.

His stay, however, didn’t prove nearly as uneventful as he’d hoped. Something about the informal atmosphere made people approach him and it turned out it was indeed his appearance that had drawn the stares before. People curiously asked him who he was, _what_ he was, as he looked like an Akaviri and those hadn’t been seen for ages, echoing the sentiment Cuhlecain had uttered before.

Even so, he sensed their curiosity was more genuine interest than hostility and he decided he might as well indulge them to some degree. When they asked their questions, he kept his answers ambiguous. He told them he was a traveler from a faraway land, who liked to wander to new and interesting places. That he hunted great and fearsome beasts, as well as any other foes. Clearly, such a martial lifestyle was favored by these people and he spent most of the night drinking and conversing with them, until he finally saw an opportunity to excuse himself and go sleep.

The very next morning, he did what the deific Emperor had told him and followed the western road out of Falkreath. It was a rather uneventful walk, but he hardly minded. He had food, water and a weapon, enabling him to look after himself. Besides, the sights were lovely and he thoroughly enjoyed walking in fresh air again, under a faint and wintery sun.

Whatever this place was, he had to admit it was truly stunning. Nature was everywhere, rough and chaotic but indescribably beautiful. Wherever he turned, there was the scent of pines and earth, of simple but colorful flowers. In the distance, he saw large mountains, crowned with snow. He could only sigh as it took it all in. No wonder Cuhlecain wished to preserve this place…

His route was a simple one. He would keep following the road north, diverting neither left or right. He’d stop by the encampments and two small towns on its path at nightfall and press on at daylight. That way, he would end up on a city called Solitude eventually. He assumed that was where the deity wanted him to go anyway. 

He was a few hours into his trek, about to pass by an odd old war monument, when the pleasant silence was suddenly shattered. Screams and war cries drowned out the pleasant quiet. There was the sound of clashing steel and even from where he stood, there was the smell of blood.

Instinctively clutching his katana, he approached the noise and quickly found its source. A giant skirmish had broken out a scant of few feet beyond the monument. An ambush, from the looks of it. One group looked like humans, wearing armor that very much reminded him of old pictures of the Roman Empire. The others wore either golden armor or dark blue robes and from what he saw of them, they were no being he’d ever seen before. 

Suddenly, there was a lull in the fight. The humans had become surrounded, golden-colored blades closing in on them on all sides. Both groups were screaming on top of their lungs, but it was already clear what the outcome would be.

“Men, defend yourselves! We must live! For Skyrim! For the Empire! For Tamriel!”

“Give it up, General Tullius! Your foolish attempts to stop the Aldmeri Dominion will end here! Skyrim will fall! Kill him! For the Summerset Isles! For the Thalmor!”

Those words, though not directed to him, had Yamamura stir. Empire… Thalmor… His mind went back to what Cuhlecain told him. About the threat this place faced. About these…Elves that threatened mankind.

That moment, it was as if a light went on inside his mind. Brighter and clearer than anything he’d ever seen before. Without thinking, he drew his sword. He knew what he had to do.

With the katana in hand, he raced towards the battle. One of the Elves caught him from the corner of his eye. He turned to a comrade, a snarl coming past his yellow lips. 

“A witness! Kill him! No one must know!”

His fellow assassin responded immediately and the two of them threw themselves at him in a flurry of elegant slashes. They seemed skilled enough and no doubt they had gotten the better of any farmer boy who had recently been conscripted into service. The wanderer, however, wasn’t impressed.

Not hesitating for a second, he spun out of the way of the first swing, only for his blade to block the downwards motion of the other. The quick movement stunned the man briefly, but long enough for him to strike. He leaned forward, slashing the man across the belly to spill his entrails. He then spun around and simply stabbed the second attacker right through the skull.

He calmly retracted the weapon before the man had even fully died, casually shaking off the blood. It was only then that he had now gained the attention of all those partaking in the skirmish. Countless eyes were aimed at him and suddenly, the world had gone so quiet not even a cricket dared to sing. The humans stared at him in surprise and confusion. The Elves with shock and rage. 

One of the latter, a woman whom he assumed to be their leader, spoke out. “You! You killed agents of the Thalmor! You have violated our accords!”

Yamamura simply chuckled. “Says the one who tries to kill a general of the Empire. Lay down your arms and I will not kill any more of you.”

His bold answer brought a brief smirk on the faces of the humans, but it only seemed to amuse the Elves in another way entirely. “Ha! You’re outnumbered two dozen to one! The finest Altmer warriors against one vagabond whose ancestors clearly enjoyed muddling their blood with the serpent people! I’ll enjoy watching you die!”

She turned to her fellow fighters. “Kill him! And bring me his head!”

Instantly, about five members of the party sped towards him. They attacked all at once from all sides, razor sharp blades dying to get a taste of his flesh. He could see an almost gleeful look on their face, but in the brief second he could spare, he met it with contempt.

His reaction was immediate. Seeing an opening, he fell on the ground, slicing off the feet of the one nearest to him. He then brought the sword upwards into the crotch of the second. He then pulled back, parrying the blades of the other three in turns, trying to step back to create some distance. 

One of them tried to get in from another side and paid the price. As Yamamura suddenly saw a golden bow and an arrow coming in his direction, he moved, instead flinging the nearest Thalmor that engaged him in its path. As the arrow struck him square in the mouth, he then rushed up to the archer and slashed him across the throat. The last Elf standing then rushed at him to stab him in the back, only for him to spin around and stab her through the gut.

With all his enemies either dead or dying, he turned back to the now increasingly more uncomfortable looking Altmer, taking a step closer and maintaining a deceivingly calm tone. “I will not repeat myself. Lay down your arms.”

It was his last warning and one the Thalmor captain obviously wasn’t going to heed. “Kill him! Kill the bastard! Then we’ll take care of these fools!”

Almost immediately, the wanderer found himself surrounded on all sides by gold armor and dark blue robes. Weapons of all sorts, from swords to maces and axes were drawn in his direction, shimmering in the sunlight. He was now locked in on all sides and with one look, he knew each and every one of his opponents were out for his blood. 

He calmly raised his sword in front of his face as they cautiously approached, using its reflection to keep an eye on the ones behind him. His eyes darted back and forward, feet planted on the ground. He took in a deep breath and forced his heartbeat to lower. Now was not the time to make mistakes. 

A few behind him moved first. He whirled around, beating off their attack, then stabbed the next one who came close in the throat. One snuck up on him with a dagger, only for him to drive the katana through his hand and then the face and throw the aforementioned dagger into the forehead of another. He hacked and slashed his way through each and every one that even dared to come close, determined to be the last one standing.

The Altmer certainly didn’t make it easy for him. They charged at him viciously, barely leaving him any time to react. Every moment, he was dodging blades and blunt weapons, sometimes missing him by less than an inch. He pushed back when he could, drawing blood at every opportunity, his teeth drawn back into a feral snarl. 

Suddenly, a hard blow of a mace in his back struck him to the ground and he had no time to think as a rain of weapons bore down on him. He responded by wildly swinging his katana, taking off several limbs in the process. One of the Thalmor suddenly jumped on top of him, ready to strike him in the chest, only for him to stab him through his chest, roll them both over and get back on his feet, ready to commit to more carnage.

Clearly, the Elves were now convinced of the danger he posed. They seemed a lot less happy to attack, hesitantly holding their weapons in front of them, a slight tremble to their postures. He simply responded by assuming his combat stance again, only to notice a blur from the corner of his eye.

The Thalmor commander charged at him like a spirit of vengeance, shrieking a war cry in Elvish as she descended on him with two small war axes. Her movements were so quick and ful of fury he responded a second too late and suddenly found himself with a nasty cut across his chest, not deep enough to be lethal yet still bleeding profusely. 

Cursing, he faced her, meeting her deadly glare with his own. She scoffed at him, only to go in, swinging both axes with utmost efficiency. Soon, Yamamura was parrying just to survive, moving back just to avoid the rapid blows. 

At this point, he could feel sweat pouring off his body, pants sneaking into his breathing. Still, he refused to run, never losing his focus, calmly waiting for the right moment. At this point, he could feel everyone was watching them and he knew it was now or never.

Block. Parry. Riposte. Every blow caused steel to sing. He was moving purely on instinct now, simply following the flashes of steel, blocking out everything else. This time, his mind wouldn’t betray him. This time, he would win.

By now, the Thalmor captain was clearly getting frustrated. Her attacks got angry, less fluid. They were now like the lunges of a hungry wild animal, fighting for prey. Cursing in Elvish, she then drew back, preparing an exceptionally powerful swing at his head. That was her downfall. 

The katana was buried in her shoulder before she fully realized it. For a brief second, she looked stunned, as if she didn’t expect to be impaled, only to then let out a pained scream. That was enough to cost her. Like a hawk swiping at a mouse, Yamamura, withdrew his sword and in one fell swoop, removed her head clean from her shoulders.

The swift sudden death of their captain was what finally spurred some sense into the brains of the survivors. Out of nowhere, the Thalmor were running. Past him and as far away as they could. 

“Fall back! We must get out of here!”

“It’s a ghost! A ghost of the Akaviri, coming for vengeance!”

“Retreat! Fall back to the Embassy!”

The remaining Elves, however, didn’t even get the chance. The humans, who had apparently simply watched his efforts with baited breath, sprang into action and swooped down on the remaining Thalmor. They were cut down brutally and quickly and it only took a few moments before there was no longer an Altmer standing near the war monument.

Yamamura quietly took in the carnage, taking this moment to regain his breath and wipe some sweat of his brow. He reached for the pouch on his belt to get a potion, drinking it down to take care of the cut on his chest. He was quite tired now, though it wasn’t the kind of kind of depressing fatigue he had felt for so long.

Truth be told, he had enjoyed this. It had felt good to fight again, to use his skills against worthy opponents. It was a rush, one he’d never thought to feel again. He no longer felt abandoned and scared. He felt powerful and in control. He felt…alive… 

“You there… Who are you? What is your name?”

The sound of a woman’s voice drew him from his thoughts. He looked up to see one of the humans approaching him. A high ranking one, judging from her armor alone. A Legate, he figured the word would be if this was indeed like the Roman Empire. He looked her in the eye and answered.

“I am Yamamura. I’m a wanderer not from here.”

She frowned at him, then chuckled. “Clearly, your parents were proud of their Akaviri blood. They still have a lot of it, from the looks of you.”

Again, Yamamura couldn’t help but be surprised just how fascinated these people seemed to be with his appearance and these apparently extinct Akaviri. Cuhlecain definitely wasn’t lying when he said his appearance would cause minds to run wild. Still, he decided not to bring this up, especially when another person approached him. A man this time and his elaborate armor indicated he was of even higher rank than the woman.

“Warrior Yamamura. I am General Tullius, from the Imperial City, and this is Legate Rikke. These wretched Thalmor agents were sent to assassinate us, to halt the Empire’s uprising against their tyranny. You have saved our lives, possibly the war…”

The wanderer looked at him, his eyes widening ever so slightly. It was then and there that every single thing fell in place for him, that the full extent of his actions sunk in. In his own little way, he’d just changed the cause of a war. One skirmish and a wanderer had changed the fate of a nation.

He quickly recovered and nodded. “I was doing what was right, General. Back home, I was taught to protect those in need with my life.”

Rikke chuckled at hearing his answer. “Were you a Nord, he would make a fearsome housecarl for you, General.”

The general seemed to light up at that very notion. “You think so? I quite like that tradition of you Nords. A personal bodyguard that manages the house and protects the interests of their liege. An especially apt tradition in these dangerous times. No doubt Yamamura here would be the finest of his kind.”

A small smirk came upon Yamamura’s face at the man’s happy chatter. So they had a principle similar to samurai and shogun here. How quaint. He almost wondered now if they also had something like a ronin and whether some became that way due to their master being slain by a beast… 

The general was still talking quite excitedly and only now realized that the wanderer was just staring at him, causing him to cough awkwardly. “I mean, would you be interested in becoming my housecarl? The housecarl of the General of the Empire?”

Now, it was his turn to be awkward. “You are…giving me a job?”

The general nodded, returning to his dignified demeanor. “Do you accept?”

It surprised Yamamura enough that he almost thought to refuse, but as he was to open his mouth, he stopped himself. The damaged part of his psyche wanted to tell him that this was more than he was worth, that he not even deserved to lick anyone’s boot. That he deserved to rot back in that cell in the Hunter’s Nightmare.

Yet the confidence that had reared its head during the fight disagreed. This was not an offer beyond him. He’d earned it with his bravery and fearlessness, his willingness to risk his neck for an Empire under siege. This was an opportunity, a chance to regain his lost honor and he should grab it with both hands. That voice grew louder by the second and something told him he should obey it instead.

Not sure of the traditions of this land, he bowed at the waist. Then, he got on his knees, unsheathed his sword and offered it to the man. He smiled, then bowed his head.

“Of course. It would be an honor.”

The two warriors stared at him. No doubt they found his conduct strange, but they seemed to nonetheless understand that what he did was a display of loyalty. Rikke motioned him to rise with a small snicker, while the general nodded to signify his approval. 

The man then perked up. “Fantastic. You are doing me, and the Empire, a grand service. Then come, we must continue to Solitude, to report to Jarl Elisif and the Emperor. I can’t wait to introduce you. Yamamura, the Akaviri descendent who defeated two dozen Thalmor singlehandedly. No doubt they will write songs about you at court.”

With that, he started to gather the rest of his men. Soon, a convoy was reformed and the way to Solitude was resumed. Rikke simply laughed and shook her head, then motioned him to come along, promising to brief him about everything going on. He followed, smiling just as broadly as she did, though for completely different reasons. 

Today, his life had begun anew, away from all the pain, suffering and insanity he’d endured. He was born anew, in this gloriously strange world, now given a purpose and a new chance at life. Here he was freed from his shame and he had a lifetime ahead to regain his sense of honor.

He’d made the first step. He was the man who stopped the assassination of a general, who saved an uprising. He was the one his enemies thought the ghost of a proud race long past, whose name would creep into their nightmares as soon as this party got to Solitude. It was his first act of note and he was determined that there were many more to come.

He’d been many things throughout his life, but this time, he was determined to be something more. Yamamura the Samurai. Yamamura the Ronin. Yamamura the Wanderer. Yamamura the Mad. Now, perhaps, he would be Yamamura, the Legend.


	14. The Brass Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henriett takes on the Falmer.

A moving brass tower. That was what the image before her looked like. A giant automaton, like from those books of fiction she once enjoyed reading. When it moved, the earth trembled and a thousand little gears grinded inside the metal husk with such noise that it was deafening.

Still, she didn’t move. She stood, gazing up at this thing that was both a miracle and an abomination all at once. This force of nature, that was looking over what she felt was the lost civilization that built it. How or why they had built it, she couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but she could only stare in awe at this being, as if she knew all by just beholding it. 

Numidium, creation of the Dwemer. The Brass God.

Suddenly, the being stared down and its mechanical eyes met with hers. She could feel herself tremble to her core at the sight of it. It reached out its hands, encouraging her to do the same and as her flesh fingertips touched with its metal ones, she swore she could see all there was and would be. 

Chains… Why was she in chains?

Henriett stirred at the sensation of cool metal around her wrists and ankles. She gasped and tried to move, only to find her movements severely limited by strong iron chains. It was dark all around her and her skin itched from the uncomfortable ragged clothes she was wearing. 

A sense of panic beset her. The last she remembered, she had been roaming through Yharnam, hunting beasts. One of them ambushed her. And then… And then…

Had she died? After all she had gone through to stay alive and sane? After losing her dear Ludwig and her friends disappearing one by one, had the curse of the Beasts now claimed her as well? Was she alone in the Hunter’s Nightmare, to forever pay for her sins?

She shivered at the very notion, but she barely got the time to truly contemplate it when she suddenly heard a door open. Some snarling creatures, not unlike the wretches hiding out in the Ptumerians tombs, approached her. She shrank back, especially when one reached out a clawed hand to grab her face.

It brought her close to his and she fought a wave of nausea that overcame her at the creature’s stench. It was exacerbated by a sheer sense of horror and disgust as it sniffed her. Still, she forced herself to keep her eyes open, quietly studying the…things that had apparently put her here. 

The very first thing she noticed, besides its rather deformed appearance, was a fleshy layer over the eyes. On instinct, she turned her own away and noticed the eyes of her captor didn’t follow. That immediately told her the creature was blind and its interested sniffing meant it had a keen sense of smell. 

Still, what was it? It had something bestial about it, but it was nothing like the monsters she was familiar with. In fact, the kind of cell she was in didn’t seem anything like the dark bowels under Yharnam at all…

Suddenly, the creature started to undo her bonds. It drew a weapon and forced her to get up. Not knowing where she was and being unarmed, she decided that remaining calm and complying was the best thing she could do right now. She got up and followed it out of the cells and then the building, only for her mouth to fall open.

What she looked upon was a giant underground city, centuries old yet still in perfect condition. The gigantic gave was lit with what seemed like enormous luminescent mushrooms and, much to her fascination, an artificial sun of sorts, hanging in the middle of the city. She had never seen anything like it and all she could do was take it in this strange splendor.

She didn’t get to do so for long. Soon, the creature escorting her hit her with the broad side of his sword, forcing her to walk again. She did so, allowing the thing to lead her to building. It forced her into a room, after which it went away again. 

She was not alone in her new quarters. Soon, she was approached from all sides by others. They wore the same ragged clothing as she did and while some of them were humans, others had more bizarre forms, like gray humanoids with pointy ears and red eyes, green apelike people or even two-legged cats. They looked her over with the same morbid curiosity as she did them, before one of the larger ones started to chuckle.

“Looks like our masters got another one.”

Another rolled his eyes. “Don’t think she’ll last long. She doesn’t look like much.”

Yet one more, a woman with dark skin, huffed at them. “Clearly, being here for so long has dulled your manners! The least we can do is greet her!”

She stepped forward and smiled. “Hello there. What’s your name?”

The Huntress responded, though hesitantly. “Henriett.”

The dark-skinned woman smiled wryly. “Hello Henriett. I am Faiza. Welcome to Blackreach and your new life as a servant of the Falmer.”

In response, Henriett simply blinked. “Falmer?”

Instantly, a nearby green man guffawed. “Oh dear, she’s not from around here obviously. This is going to be quite a shock…”

His humor only set her on edge even more and Faiza simply sighed. “Here, we’ll get you some food and explain everything to you. Though it’s not going to be pretty.”

To say she wasn’t exaggerating would be an understatement. For the next hour or so, the Huntress became aware of just what an awful situation she had somehow gotten herself into. Not only was she no longer anywhere near Yharnam, she didn’t even seem to be in the same damned time period. These people had never even heard of a gun or syringe, let alone of a place as advanced as her hometown.

Even though she became convinced this wasn’t the Hunter’s Nightmare and she was not dead, she might as well be. She was alone, forever torn from those she cared about. And somehow, then and there, she knew she was never going to see her homeland again.

That wasn’t even the worst of it either. It seemed that as she got here, she’d been captured by some strange creatures called Falmer. Once called Snow Elves, and related to both the Dark Elves and Orcs as her fellow captives of those races pointed out, they had gone underground after a long war with humankind. They had hoped for protection amongst the Dwemer, their brethren, but they had betrayed them and turned them into the blind, malformed subterranean horrors they were now.

When the Dwemer disappeared mysteriously, something they claimed had to do with the brass deity Numidium, the Falmer stayed behind. Their continued breeding in captivity had not done much to improve their state and they only had one desire: to destroy or enslave any surface races they found.

The story of their fate awakened a little bit of pity in Henriett, but that still didn’t mean that she liked the idea of now being a slave. Instantly, her mind was set on escape. If anything, she was surprised none of these people had ever considered it.

“So, is there a way out of here?”

The Orc, Bogba she now knew, guffawed. “Of course. Several. Just don’t bother.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because the Falmer will have killed you before you even made it out, subjecting the rest of us to starvation, floggings and beatings. They may not be able to see, but they can hear, smell and feel much better than any other sentient race. And if they won’t get to you first, it’ll be their chaurus livestock or their war machines. Oh, and they’ll eat your remains if they find them.”

That little bit of information made her fall silent for a moment, but it didn’t take long for her to bounce back. “Well, what if we all make a run for it? There’s strength in numbers.”

A Dunmer named Velyar shook his head. “And what should we fight them with? Any weapons they’ve given us are simple iron or steel. The few exceptionally well-behaved ones get Orcish metal, perhaps. Their weapons, however, are made of chitin and far superior to ours. What’s more, we have absolutely no armor.”

Still, Henriett wasn’t daunted. “And how hard is it to overpower these…things? They come to our waist at most! All you need is a jab them with something sharp in the right place. 

Ranzahr the Khajiit chuckled. “Falmer are stronger than they look. And they are fast and agile and attack in numbers. This one thinks fighting them head on is suicide.”

This time, the Huntress couldn’t think of anything to answer. These slaves had temporarily shut down all her immediate ideas and her frantic mind was currently clutching at air. Knowing she had nothing sensible to say for now, she simply nodded and fell silent, staring at cup of water she’d been given. 

Faiza seemed to mistake this for surrender and squeezed her shoulder in an effort to comfort her. “It’s not so bad. They feed us regularly and don’t abuse us if we don’t act out. The quicker you accept it, the easier it gets.”

Again, Henriett nodded, but it was only in order to end this conversation. Inside, she absolutely refused to accept this situation. With the stubbornness that had her survive so long in Yharnam, she started to scheme again. She had already suffered so much, enough that she was too hardened to bend or break. If anything, she was now more determined than ever to get away from here. If she needed time to do so, then so be it. 

Unlike these people, she wasn’t afraid of these disgusting Falmer. Even if they were strong and more intelligent than they appeared, she was not like their usual prey. These things were no beasts or Great Ones. They knew how to overwhelm a warrior or an unwary traveler. She, however, was a Hunter. It would take a lot more than mere fear tactics or brute force for these blind abominations to contain her. 

Thus, the next morning, the Huntress started on her new existence with feigned acceptance. She appeared with the others early in the morning, calmly waiting for her hated new masters to assign the tasks. As she did, she quietly looked around Blackreach to take in the environment.

She spied Falmer archers on every wall, listening for disturbances inside and outside the walls of the city. Inside the walls, several other armed ones skulked around as well, going about their business yet barely acknowledging them. Sometimes they stopped and raised their heads to smell the air, as if to determine some unseen threat. By now, she knew she couldn’t see, but she’d need some way to circumvent their keen sense of smell.

Work for the slaves seemed to consist of four tasks mainly. Protecting what seemed to be the higher ranked members of the Falmer, growing crops, maintaining machinery and mining minerals. Much to her delight, Henriett was sorted into that last group, which allowed her to go outside of the city and get a good look at the environment beyond it. 

She made ample use of the opportunity. As she was set to work with a pickaxe, she stared at the enormous grotto, memorizing everything she saw. She noticed several roads meandering throughout the place, as well as several buildings in the distance and a few camps of Falmer dotted here and there. She even spied them herding their chaurus, he most disgusting insects she’d ever seen, and she even spied the war machines her fellow slaves had talked about. 

The next few weeks were the most monotone of her life. Get up early, work her fingers to the bone, eat a disgusting meal three times a day and go to bed. She went through the motions obediently and without complaints, noting with some satisfaction that the Falmer were quick to stop paying attention to her in particular. 

At the same time, she did her best to forge close bonds with the other slaves. She talked to them about their homelands, exchanged jokes. She learned about the vast deserts of Hammerfell, the jungles of Elseweyr, Morrowind before the volcanic eruption, stately High Rock, the Orc strongholds and the icy lands above them that were Skyrim. They even told her of the myth of the underground dragon, that supposedly appeared if you disturbed the artificial sun above the city. 

She in turn told them about her home and about the beasts she had hunted, filling their evenings with bone chilling and thrilling tales that many of them enjoyed drinking their rotten ale to. Soon, she was one of the group and nearly everyone considered her a friend. It was exactly what she had hoped for and it allowed her to put the first part of her plan in motion.

As her wardens escorted her throughout the cave to find new mineral deposits, she caught sight of the place where these creatures dumped their dead. Waiting for the warden to be distracted, she sneaked over to it and, using the iron dagger she’d now been afforded, to slice off the ears. Using some other herbs to mask the smell, she hid them on her person and took them with her to the slave quarters.

That night, as all of them slept, Henriett got up from her bed. She took the ears and, after taking a deep breath, she started to rub them all over her. Soon, she smelled as repulsive as a Falmer, but she fought the urge to gag. Instead, she snuck out of the sleeping quarters and into the city. 

Moving as softly as she could, she proceeded to sneak out the gates. A few Falmer were still up and about and she could still spy the sentries on the walls. Every step she took was done with baited breath and she nervously glanced around. If she was caught now, her plans were either set back several steps or over entirely.

None of the Falmer, however, seemed to even remotely notice her. If they even heard her at all, a quick sniff of the air had them stand at ease again. As she slinked out the gates into the grotto, she realized she hadn’t raised any alarms at all and she was almost shocked that her ridiculous plan had actually worked. 

Once away from the city, hidden by the shadows of the luminescent mushrooms, she started to explore. Already the first night proved practical. She quickly found out that her captors had a habit of storing everything they found or took off their victims, either in chests of their own making or those left by the Dwemer. Her first venture left her with potions, lockpicks, coins, gems and some actual leather armor.

She took them with her, then headed back to Blackreach. She snuck back into the slave quarters, then hid what she found in a special cache she had made. She then quickly rinsed the stench of her body, then got back into bed, beyond excited that her experiment had in fact succeeded.

For the next few nights, she used this method to venture out and gather supplies for her escape. She gathered armor and weapons, gemstones and money, useful potions and herbs. She regularly went back to the corpse pile to get new Falmer ears. She studied the war machines and the pattern of the wandering giant, who seemed peaceful unless you came too close. She discovered the lifts leading to the surface. She even found an old outpost of a scientist named Sinderion with an alchemy station and started using it as a safe house, to gather supplies and hide from enemies.

Her stealth made it easy to evade them and at times, she wondered if she shouldn’t just attempt escape on her own. Still, knowing what would happen to her fellow slaves if they found her gone, she found she didn’t want to risk it. Especially now she had come to know them.

Even as a Huntress, Henriett had hated being alone. Back in the day, before everything went rotten, she had often hunted with others, preferably with her close companion Ludwig, Simon the Harrowed, Beastclaw Josef, Vitus and Prospectors Olek and Gremia. They had been a pack and loyalty had been part of her success. As such, she’d be damned if she would leave someone behind now.

So she toiled on, for weeks on end, gathering whatever she could to orchestrate her jailbreak. She bore the lack of sleep best as she could, suffering a few smacks of her wardens when she wasn’t mining swift enough. She resisted the urge to put a pickaxe to their skulls, quietly biding her time, knowing she would soon be rid of them. If only they knew just how easily she had fooled him with some ears and a gentle step…

It was about five months into her captivity that she decided the time was right. That night, as the Falmer left them alone in the slave quarters, she quietly waited until everyone had eaten. Then, as they were about to retire to bed, she got up and made an announcement. 

“Everyone, there is something I want to show you.”

Getting their attention, she got up and then motioned them to follow her. They did so curiously and, once in the sleeping quarters, Henriett could only beam as she opened her cache and presented them with the fruits of her labor. She almost laughed as she was met with a sea of open mouths. 

Bogba was the first to speak. “Where…where did you get all this?”

She smirked. “I scavenged them all around Blackreach. I’ve been sneaking out at night, masking my scent. We have money and gems, food and potions. We have proper armor and proper weapons, from swords to bows. Take your pick.”

That invitation was enough for the majority of them. They excitedly ran up to the offered goods, fighting each other to have first pick. Faiza, however, remained frozen. She stared her up and down, a sorrowful and nervous expression on her face.

“You plan to get out.”

The Huntress nodded, ignoring how the others suddenly froze in frightened shock. “Yes and I want you to come with me. You said our lack of proper weaponry was our main weakness. Well, I’ve evened out the odds. So what is your excuse?”

The Khajiit spoke up in response. “You wish to fight them and brave the outskirts of Blackreach? Ranzahr thinks you’re insane.”

Now, Velyar joined in. “I agree. If they catch us, they’ll kill us. Or worse, torture us or work us to death. Fighting our way out is a fool’s errant.”

The rest of the slaves murmured I agreement, starting to step away from the weapons and, inwardly, Henriett was seething. How? How could these people have become so complacent in captivity? So afraid that they didn’t even dare to dream of freedom anymore? It revolted her to no end and where she had planned to speak words of encouragement before, she now decided to voice her displeasure.

Henriett rolled her eyes. “I am. Insane enough not to want to rot here, apparently. Insane enough that I long for freedom. That I long to see my loved ones again, who linger and wait somewhere, not knowing whether I’m dead or not.”

She turned to all of them, looking each in the eye. “So Faiza, you’re telling me lashes and hunger have made you give up on your daughter forever. Ranzahr, you say Khajiit are clever, but you couldn’t even think of a way to outwit your captors like I did. Velyar, you survived the eruption of the Red Mountain, but this is where you throw up your hands and say “no more”? Bogba, you talk to me about how Orsimer are a proud warrior race, yet you’ve turned into a coward over a few Falmer. I am ashamed of you and honestly, I wonder just why I bothered risking my neck for you.”

With those words, she picked up a Dwarven warhammer and put it on her shoulders. “Well, I’m getting out. With or without you. And if you plan to stop me, I will fight you along with the Falmer. So make your choice. Torture on my behalf, freedom or death!”

There was a shocked silence and the whole group looked as if she had whipped them. She gnashed her teeth, inwardly noting just how dumb they all looked, like sheep who would follow each other to slaughter. As much as she had come to care for them, she almost wondered why she was even trying to reason with such spineless cretins. Why she had even put all her time into saving those who evidently refused to save themselves. 

Yet, just as she was about to give up, Bogba suddenly stepped up. He grabbed some Orcish armor and a large axe, then looked at her. “You speak harshly, but truly. I was a coward when I fled my stronghold and a coward when I submitted to my fate here. Well, no more. I still think this is suicide, but if I cannot live as an Orc, I’ll at least die like one with a weapon in my hand.”

His words had Faiza step forward as well. “There is a little girl out there, waiting for her mother. I failed her, for three long years. I refuse to fail her any longer. Whatever happens, at least I can now say I tried to return to her.”

As she grabbed her weapons, Ranzahr joined. “Khajiit longs to feel sun on his face. To feels warm sands under his feet. It’s time to head home.”

His words made Velyar grin as well. “Yes, home. To a land torn, but still surviving. Alive unlike this wretched cave. You are right, Henriett. Let us fight, my friends! Let us earn our freedom! And if we die, let us die together!”

Were it any other situation, the others would have cheered. Instead, everyone once again turned to the weaponry and armor. Hands grasped and tore at the offerings and soon, ragged robes were replaced with the raiment of warriors. Previous dulled faces were flushed and in their eyes, there was a renewed fervor. What more, there was a desire for battle and bloodlust, a long forgotten need for vengeance once again bubbling to the service. 

The sight of it was enough to invigorate Henriett as well and she raised her weapon, determined to give them that final push. “For freedom!”

The group, wearing the feral grin of fighters, responded. “For freedom!”

The Falmer never saw it coming. As the group spilled out of the sleeping quarters, the few archers in the group got to work first. They swiftly and easily took out the sentries, while Henriett directed Ranzahr to dispatch any other patrolling guards by slashing their throats. By the time the other Falmer were stirred awake by the noise, their party already had the upper hand and murdered them as soon as they opened the doors from their quarters. 

The Huntress and Bogba took particular delight in obliterating skulls with their giant weapons. These cretins were fast, but the Hunt had made her faster and after so long of living under their thumb, she enjoyed spilling their blood. She pushed into the city, shrugging off any wound she sustained and downing a potion when she could, determined to slay each and every one of these monsters in her bid for freedom.

With the sentries dead and warriors lying dead in the square, the party quickly made its way out of the gates. Henriett gathered some of the mages front and center, ordering them to cast arcane fire at the chaurus egg sacs and cocoons. Those who managed to escape the inferno were dispatched by the warriors, while the healers then fell in line to keep everyone from grievous injury. 

The further out they got, the harder the fight got. Falmer were attacking them from all sides on the outskirts, no doubt shouting threats in that warbled tongues of theirs. It only made the Hutress even more determined to destroy them.

Fearlessly, she charged out from the rest of the group, taking her warhammer to the faces of her enemies. Shouting commands to her fellow slaves to follow her, she crushed all those in her path. She ran and dodged, charged and smashed. She was determined for her and her group to survive this and right now, all sense of fear or hesitation was gone. 

Her fearless rage was clearly infectious. Her fellow slaves met the attacking hordes with equal fury and equal amounts of sadistic creativity. A few of them activated the nearby Dwarven centurions, riding them and watching gleefully as they burned the Falmer to death with steam or crushed them into a pulp. Other trapped them in circles of fire or killed them with powerful spells on their own magic staves. Ranzahr even got the idea to fire an arrow at the nearby giant, to draw it into the fight and destroy their former captors for them.

Soon, the Falmer were overwhelmed, fighting too many enemies to simply overwhelm with numbers. The smell of blood and burned corpses were in the air and dying shrieks made the walls of the cave tremble. With their tormentors now fighting the other foes, Henriett saw her chance and called out.

“To the lift! Follow me! Now is our chance!”

With that, she started running, the others falling in and hot on her heels. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her to the lift right out of Blackreach and furiously motioned as many people as possible to get in. They only happily complied and as she stood vigil, beating off any enemies that were still within range, the first part of the group started to go up. 

A second party and third followed, but she barely paid attention. Instead, she fought off several more approaching Falmer. By now, she was drenched in blood and painting madly, certain that her enemies were feeling her weakness. They descended onto her almost madly, clearly deciding that if they couldn’t get their slaves back, they’d settle for killing her. She snarled at them. They could try.

So she fought, even as she was gasping and her muscles trembling. She strained her arms to swing her hammer, determined to wound and kill as many as she could. She kept doing so, sweat drenching off her body, until Bogba brutally butchered the few Falmer still near her, grabbed her and dragged her into the lift. 

“Henriett, come on! We’ve got to go!”

She hardly even registered as she was pulled into the stone chamber and the lift went up, obscuring Blackreach from view. Suddenly, there was only gray stone and brunch structuring, the heavy material muting the hellish noise below. The ride only lasted a few seconds, but almost seemed eternal. It was as if almost a lifetime passed before the stone chamber came to a halt and the gate was opened to the surface.

The pale winter sun caused her eyes to sting and she shivered madly at the cold and snow all around her. Still, she couldn’t bear to avert her eyes as she took in this world, reveling in the cold fresh air and the sight of trees and the sky. As small snowflakes fell down and stuck to her blond hair, it finally occurred to her to look over the rest of her group.

They looked like they had been through hell, which was exceptionally close to the truth. Most of them looked tired and battered, some of them were even wounded. Yet all of them were alive, having made it through with her leadership. Alive…and free.

The moment she looked at each of them, their faces lit up with the brightest, most genuine smiles she had ever seen. Some of them even bowed their heads, a hand on their heart. It made her own heart twitch and she swore she could feel a stray tear in her throat. It said more than the words fatigue was robbing them off. They too were tasting freedom and they were thanking her for spurring them into achieving it.

It was quiet, save for the sound of wind and wildlife, as the party simply sat in the snow. Henriett joined them in this, allowing the chill to cool her overheated body. She took deep breaths, taking in the scent of the surface and wondering just what on earth she would do next.

She had planned the escape, but truth be told, she hadn’t thought of anything beyond it. After all, she was unfamiliar in this land and had no idea of what lay beyond Blackreach. Now that she was confronted with it, it hit her like a ton of bricks. Just what was she going to do with this party of refugees, who were no doubt hungry, thirsty and in need of shelter? She certainly didn’t have that last one and what little foodstuff she had wouldn’t even last a group this large for two days.

Her stomach twisted at the thought, right up to the point when Ragnhild, a usually quiet and stoic female Nord, spoke up. “I know this place! This road leads to the camp of Stonehills and Morthal is beyond the swamp! We can make it there in two hours’ time!”

Those words were all she, and everyone else, needed to hear. Several cries of joy reverberated through the group. Immediately, several of them got up, determined to continue the trek and put as much distance between them and Blackreach as possible. The Huntress was quick to agree on that count. She could bite back tiredness a little longer if it meant reaching a safe place.

Ragnhild’s memory proved indeed correct. Within a few hours of walking and limping, Henriette could already see the rooftops of the marshland town. It put a spring in the step of everyone and some long forgotten prayers to deities unknown rang through the forest as everyone practically starting to sprint, calling upon that last burst of energy one tapped into when salvation was nigh.

The innkeeper of the Moorside Inn, and her usual patrons, got the surprise of her life when a raggedly band of refugees descended upon her establishment, flinging themselves upon the benches with sighs of fatigue and elation all at once. The moment she dared to approach, coins were thrust in her direction, along with requests for food and drink, no doubt forcing her into an evening even more productive than her usual one. 

Naturally, their ragtag appearance caused some eyebrows to raise and it wasn’t long before a few local off-duty guards questioned where they came from. Their answer shocked them and it wasn’t long before the Jarl was roused from her sleep and brought over to decide over these peculiar temporary refugees.

Whatever people said about Idgrod Ravencrone, Henriett quickly decided she liked her. Knowing the inn was not nearly big enough to house these people, she ordered her guards to give them access to her longhouse and an abandoned home in the town. She then told them to gather all the bedrolls they could so everyone could sleep and be housed until they could find their ways back home. 

Henriett especially found herself the center of attention, as the other former slaves were quick to introduce her as the mastermind of their successful escape. It wasn’t long before nearly everyone in the inn was buying her a drink and she had to tell them the tale of their escape at least a dozen times. She was only happy to do so even if it was occasionally interrupted with a yawn. After all the misery she had gone through, she was glad if simply talking yielded her something to enjoy.

It was well past midnight when she finally retired to bed. She curled into the bedroll on the floor of the Highmoon Hall, noting that it still felt better than the stone beds she had slept on in Blackreach all this time. All around her, she could already hear the snoring of her companions, all them worn out by their ordeal and embracing the first peaceful sleep they had possibly had in years. She wanted to join them, but while her eyes felt heavy, a thought still ran through her mind.

What would become of them all after this? No doubt, they would all want to go home, each to their own corner of this world. They would part ways and possibly never see each other again, leaving this dark chapter of their lives behind, perhaps as even less than a bad memory.

All of them except for her. Unlike these others, she had no home to go back to. No family to welcome her back with open arms. Yharnam was forever lost to her and she would never so much as lay eyes on a familiar face. She was a stranger here and the only one who was lost, with nowhere to go.

She might have felt a sliver of despair at that, were it not for her time in the city of blood. This wasn’t the first time she had lost something. Not the first time she felt alone, grieving and adrift. Her heart had hardened one too many times already and as uncertain as her future was right now, the answer to her predicament was already clear to her.

She would go on.

She would go into this world, exploring and discovering as she went. She would try to carve her niche and make herself at home. She would try to rebuild, as she had done a million times before and fight and scrape for the happiness she so desired and, in her opinion, deserved. 

That notion, however harsh, was what allowed her to sleep. She knew herself and knew how strong she was. Surely, with her will and stubbornness, eventually fate would yield eventually. She was not going to despair here in Skyrim; she was going to thrive. After what she had achieved today, she was certain she could.


	15. Mind of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig meets the mad Daedric Prince himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was possibly one of the hardest to write. Sheogorath is easily one of my favorite Daedric Princes, but it's really hard to replicate the delightful bowl of ham and cheese that's Wes Johnson's performance. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

What strange things could a fractured mind conjure…

That was the thought, or at the least the most coherent one, that floated through Ludwig’s mind. After his decapitated head had finally closed his eyes and been laid to rest, he’d expected to eternally embrace a dreamless sleep. What he was looking at now, however, meant he was dreaming. That or death had not freed him after all. 

He certainly hoped the latter wasn’t true, prayed it wasn’t. Yet as he looked around this gloomy placed, misty and overturned with roots, he wasn’t so sure. This place, while quiet, seemed equally lost and twisted same as Yharnam. Just as mad, if possibly not worse. 

He got up and moved forward, on all fours or however many legs his twisted and mangled form still had. A small, nervous whinny left his throat as he almost felt like the fog was closing in on him at all sides. Meanwhile, his deformed heart pounded in his throat. His sanity had somewhat returned to him, it seemed, yet what nightmare had he ventured in now?

This place was dark and gloomy, like the kind of forest a witch or troll would hide in. It reminded him so much of the Grimm fairytales that were read to him in childhood, that frightened him beyond words, that it was almost uncanny. It almost made him believe in monsters even more than he already did, only needing to look at his reflection for reassurance in that belief.

Still, he pressed on, through thick forests and swamplands, wandering towards a destination unknown. He soon grew cold and shivered madly, his joints hurting from the humid air. The roots and uneven ground made it hard to plant his feet and soon, he was limping, only contributing to his miserable state.

From the corner of his eye, he swore he could see things moving in the shadows. Horrid things, whose appearance would defy imagination were he not so much worse. Even so, they frightened him deeply and he couldn’t recall the last time he felt so alone.

His mind went to all of the companions he’d lost in his desperate attempts to combat the plague. Gehrman, Laurence, Simon, Gratia, Gremia, Vitus, Olek, Josef, Maria... All of them valiant Hunters and one by one, they had fallen, either to beasts or madness.

The only one who still alive by his knowledge was Henriett. He smiled just thinking about her. A formidable and vicious Huntress that hailed from his native Germany, the two of them had quickly become inseparable. An academic mind who could plot meticulously, her studies and strategic power were invaluable to the Hunt and for all the praise he got as the first Hunter of the Church, he doubted his party would have survived as long as it did if his valiant heroism hadn’t been tempered by her shrewdness and sensibility.

Where was she now, he wondered. Was she still chasing Beasts in Yharnam? Still fighting valiantly against the Scourge? Probably. He hoped so, at least. In any case, he was glad that she couldn’t see him now. Even he was horrified at what he had become…

Even the monsters in this strange place seemed to be avoiding him. Their leery glowing eyes cast only one look at him before their owners slithered away. He was feared here, as much as he had been in the Nightmare. If anything, he now suspected, he was slipped from one bad dream into another.

He had possibly roamed for hours, growing ever more disorientated and uneasy, when at last, he saw something familiar. Humanoid shapes in the distance, carrying arms on them. Instantly, his heartrate went up and he started to tremble all over.

Horrible memories of the Hunter’s Nightmare resurfaced in his mind. Of Hunters, armed to the teeth, hunting him like they did the Beasts. That was how he remembered dying, cut down by the same order he’d helped raise. Instantly, every sense of his was blinded by fear and without his Holy Moonlight Sword, he felt immensely vulnerable. As such, when they finally noticed him and approached, he could only think of one thing.

He ran.

As if he were beset by the devil himself, he galloped away from these people, hellbent on putting as much distance between them and him as possible. The humans quickly pursued him and within seconds, he was running for his life, not caring where he went. Simply trying his best not to slip or fall, he galloped away from these armed menaces, terrified of what would happen should they catch him.

So terrified was he that he barely even realized where he was going. Had he paid attention, he would have noticed that the landscape had drastically changed. What was once dreary and foggy was turning to colorful and sunny. The ground became more stable, filled with luscious green grass that swayed in the wind. Surely this place would have delighted him, if he wasn’t currently do desperate to flee.

He only stopped when, at last, he caught sight of another alarming development. Several more humans approached him from the front, weapons drawn and shouting. He screeched to a halt, trying to turn back, only to find that his pursuers had caught up.

Trapped between two forces, Ludwig frozen, thrashing uncontrollably as he tried to force them to leave him be. Neither group did so, fiercely swinging their weapons at him in an effort to make him yield. At the same time, they seemed immensely occupied with shouting, both at him and at each other.

“Be gone, foul creature! You belong in Dementia, with the wretched Dark Seducers! Proceed and we will cut you down!”

“You foolish Golden Saints! This is no creature of ours! Only those in Mania could possibly think of something this absurd! Take back your trash!”

“How dare you, your insolent blackened wretches! Take responsibility for your own shortcomings or we will report them to our Lord!”

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you, you holier-than-thou gilded wingheads! Well, we’ll tell our Lord everything about your negligence and you can kiss your exalted station goodbye!”

The shouting got louder and louder and all it did was frighten Ludwig even more. By now, he was on his knees, quaking and fearful tears at the corners of his eyes. His hands were clasped in a gesture of prayer and as he became scared of out his wits, he called out to them on top of his lungs.

“Please! Do not hurt me! I beg of you!”

His plea, his last desperate effort to be spared, is what caught the attention of both groups. Both turned in his direction, looking him over with a sense of astonishment. Finally, one of the warriors clad in gold spoke.

“It speaks. And seems sound of mind, at least as much as one can be here.”

This time, the ones dressed in black didn’t respond and Ludwig took the moment to plead his case further. “Please, I am merely lost and do not wish anyone here harm. If only you would tell me where I am and how to leave here, I shall trouble you no more. I promise…”

The two groups continued to look at him, perplexed, seemingly both intrigued and shocked by his ability to speak eloquently. A sense of immense discomfort came over them and they all stared at their brethren to try and figure out what to do next. Eventually, one of the warriors in black spoke. 

“So it’s not of the Shivering Isles at all. Perhaps we should take it to Lord Sheogorath. Surely he will know what to do with it.”

For once, there was absolutely no strife between the two groups. The one closest to him grabbed a piece of cloth dangling off his deformed body and gently tugged it, telling him to follow her. He obliged, still hesitant, but already relieved that these people weren’t going to slaughter him on the spot.

So he followed them, across the line that seemingly straddled a bleak land of hopelessness and a vivid paradise. The stark contrast between the two places unnerved him, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. He was far more interested in what his fate would be…

Even so, he gasped when he suddenly found himself entering a city and climbing the steps of the most awe-inspiring palaces he’d ever seen. For just a moment, he paused, taking in the sights. One of the warriors had to poke him order for him to keep walking and he muttered an apology under his breath as he nervously wondered what awaited him inside.

He got his answer soon enough. He was quickly led inside a throne room, thrust up a large throne. In it said a strange man, wearing an unusual doublet of two different colors and leaning on a cane, with beside him a middle-aged attendant. Even from a distance, he could somehow tell this man was anything but normal.

When he saw them coming in, he perked up. “Ah, my lovely servants? What brings you here? What did the cat drag in today? Well, you all aren’t really cats though you do fight like them, I suppose. Boy, do those claw come out!”

The warriors remained unmoved. “Master Sheogorath, we bring you this strange creature we found roaming the Shivering Isles. What it is, we know not but it can speak and seems self-aware.”

Their master looked him over, then snorted with laughter. “Good grief! I know I’ve said before that you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but this a horse I’d rather not look at, at all! What sick mind conjured this? Coming to think of it, what was _I_ doing last night after having too much skooma? Perhaps that’s the real question?”

The warriors didn’t respond to that and Ludwig took this opportunity to kneel, deciding to get in the man’s good graces. “My Lord, my name is Ludwig. Please forgive me for trespassing into your kingdom. I am but a lost soul, not quite certain how I ended up here myself.”

The gentleman frowned at him for a moment, only to then laugh. “You’re not sure how you got here? That’s a hoot! Everyone who comes here in mad, invited or both. Where are you from not to know that, huh? A land where humans grow fur and teeth and big tentacle monsters rule the cosmos?”

The Hunter perked up. “So you know of the city of Yharnam?”

The man’s eye widened. “…Oh, I didn’t expect to actually be right.”

That response instantly dampened Ludwig’s spirits. So he was in a place where nobody had heard of his home. That was bad news, worse than he could possibly hope to hear. This Lord Sheogorath, however, seemed to recover quickly. Instead, he skipped off his throne and suddenly, a table and two chairs appeared in the middle of the room. 

“Well, no matter! You’re here anyway, so you might as well regale me with your tales, even if you’re more hideous than the lovechild of an Orc and a Sload! I never talked to a horse person, so this is quite unusual. So, can I get you anything? Wine and cheese? Tea and biscuits? A trough of water and hay?”

At this point, the Hunter was feeling even more on edge than before. The way the people treated this man, he gathered he was in charge of this place. Yet he didn’t act any way a proper Lord would, as nonsensical as everything else he’d seen here. If anything, he was suspected the man was even more insane than he was. 

Still, feeling it was best not to provoke a madman, he simply nodded. “Tea, please.”

Almost immediately, a cup of hot tea appeared before him, as well as a tray of treats. They were not the biscuits they were promised but instead a strange kind of dumpling. He was hesitant to touch either offering. Something gave him the feeling the tea might as well be blood and the dumplings filled with maggots.

Sheogorath didn’t seem to notice or at least didn’t seem to care. Instead, he urged him to tell him all about himself and this place he came from. He laughed at about every inappropriate moment, reveling at the story of the Healing Church’s folly. It pained him at every turn, but he kept his mouth shut. 

At one point, he did hazard the tea and he was pleasantly surprised to notice was indeed actual tea of a plant extract and the dumplings had sugar and lavender in them. He supposed that was something. At least this insane man, a mage of some sort, was something of a decent host.

At one point, however, Sheogorath was done listening. He stared at him, loudly slurping his tea. He then put the cup aside, seemingly in thought. 

“Still, as amusing as a few power-hungry buffoons turning everyone into perilous pooches is, it left you in quite the predicament. You’re a long way from home and up to your eyes in horse manure, most of which you’re producing yourself at this point.”

Ludwig nodded. “It seems so, My Lord.”

He got a glare in return. “Oh no, not at all. I got this all wrong. You’ve in fact turned into a beautiful little butterfly, just waiting to come out of its cocoon…of course it seems that way! Well, I, for one, won’t stand for it!”

The Hunter nervously munched on one of the dumplings. “How so, My Lord?”

“Well, how are you supposed to carry on like this? You’re lost. All alone. You’re scaring all the scanlons, baliwogs and Flesh Atronachs just walking by! And being a horse, you probably can’t even eat cheese! What kind of life is that? This will not do!”

If Ludwig had been capable of sweating in his new form, he would have done so. With every word this man spoke, he became more certain that he was as dangerous as he was crazy. Yet here he was, stuck in his palace, with no way to excuse himself and escape. He forced himself to stay calm and respond, praying he’d somehow make it through all of this in one piece. 

“Well, my Lord, it is not like I can change much about my current situation. I suppose I must simply live with it.”

Sheogorath huffed. “Oh, such nonsense! You may be a hilariously distorted, questionable sane dimension-swept mortal, but I am a Prince! A Daedric Prince! I can do whatever I like! And what I like is to fix your equine dilemma!”

The mortal man swallowed. “How would you intend to do that?”

A smirk came onto the madman’s face ad his eyes, so much like a cat’s he now realized, shone. “Oh, very simple. I’ll simply strap you to a table and take a nice, sharp little scalpel, then cut off all the parts you no longer need and mold the essential ones back into human shape. It’s hewing a statue out of a block of marble, except with a lot more blood and guts. Quite simple, really.”

It was at that very moment that Ludwig could feel the tea and dumplings escaping back into his throat. Instantly, images of the Research Hall flashes before his eyes. Then and there, he knew he was in grave danger.

He should have known. He should have known from the start. This pleasant conversation was merely a prelude to this new Nightmare he had landed himself in. This man was simply its architect, the God of this terrible dream, and right now, he was nothing but a fly, tangled in a spider’s web about to be devoured. He inched away ever so slowly.

“T-that will not be necessary, Lord Sheogorath. Please, I should leave your fiefdom and trouble you no more.”

A mad laugh was the answer. “Oh, but you don’t trouble me at all. I have all the time in the world. In fact, let’s start now, then we’ll be done by supper!”

Then, with a snap of his fingers, the table and chairs disappeared. Out of nowhere, Ludwig found he couldn’t move. All his limbs were strapped to a vertical surface and he found his mouth gagged by an iron muzzle. With those restraints came an overwhelming sense of fear, one that only increased as he saw that the madman now wore and apron and approached him with a white hot scalpel. 

“Now, now, hold still. This won’t hurt a bit, but it’s as delicate as doing the fish stick. I will need to concentrate...”

The next hour or so, Ludwig lived a nightmare far worse than his transformation into beasthood ever was. Sheogorath was truthful about the lack of pain as he didn’t feel a thing. Still, that was barely a comfort. as that changed nothing about the fact he could perfectly see and hear. 

He could see how the scalpel cut into his flesh, separating tendon and bone, opening up veins. He witnesses how the madman, or mad God he now wondered, removed his many legs or casually pulled out his innards, examining them, molding them with strange magic or casually tossing them away. He could hear the wet, squelching sound of his blood squirting out, the splat of his body parts hitting the floor, the beating of his heart in the man’s hand. At one point, the twisted Lord even opened his skull and he could feel him literally pick his brain.

Even as he closed his eyes, he became more undone at the sounds alone. Could he still speak, he would have screamed. Or perhaps even begged for him to cease this cruelty. To simply let him be, still a horrid parody of himself but at least remembering who he was. Even living as an abomination was surely better than to lie here, being dissected for the sadistic amusement of a cosmic being.

This inhuman procedure went on for what seemed like eternity. So long and so drawn out that his body and mind could no longer even hold on to feeling terror. Instead, he slumped against his bindings, trying to breathe and desperately willing his thoughts to go elsewhere, anywhere but the inhumane experience he was currently subject to. 

“There we go, all done. I dare say this is my best work yet. I dare say it even make Relmyna Verenim’s work look like amateur sculptures! Oh, don’t let her know I said that though!”

Sheogorath’s cheerful voice pulled him right back to the reality of his situation. Instinctively, he started to struggle again and it took him several moments to realize he was no longer bound. Similarly, the muzzle was removed from his face, allowing him to gasp and even speak again.

The real shock, however, came mere moments later, as a hand moved to his face to confirm the absence of the device. Where he once felt an elongated, distorted head, he now felt the outlines of a normal human face. Familiar, symmetrical, feeling the way he remembered without so much as a stitch. In fact, he now realized the hand in front of his eyes was similarly human and so was the rest of his body as he looked down at himself.

He stared incredulously. “You…you actually returned me to my human form…”

The God of Madness rolled his eyes. “Well, of course! What did you expect? That I’d turn you into an actual horse? A troll? A sweetroll, which goes well with a bottle of ale? Well, I’m not hungry! So I instead returned you to your old form. You certainly take up less space that way.”

He still didn’t sound even an inkling more sane than he did before. Yet the Hunter couldn’t care less. Without thinking, he threw himself at Sheogorath’s feet and prostrated himself before him. He was practically crying now and not even ashamed to admit it, even going so far as reaching out and touching the hem of his robe.

“My Lord, I do not know how to thank you…”

He meant every word of it. There was no way he could describe just how good it felt to be himself again. To look like his old self, to once again have his mind free of horrors and dark visions. He would have been grateful to any person who had accomplished such a seemingly impossible feature, even if this was an eldritch abomination who was incurably insane. 

The mad God, however, was not impressed. “Oh hush! You mortals are so easily taken with the simplest of things. It’s adorable almost! Still, it’s time for supper and with fixing your mess, you have overstayed your welcome on my Isles. After all, what use does this place have for a man that’s now normal and absolutely sane?”

Almost instantly, Ludwig looked up at him in utter surprise. What on earth did he mean with that? He was to go away now? Mere moments after regaining himself? Why so suddenly? And most importantly, where to?

He opened his mouth to ask, but Sheogorath was quicker. “So shoo! Shoo! Get out of here! Go reap some havoc in the mortal world; you certainly don’t need any help with that. In fact, judging from the juicy little bits I found in your brain, I know just the place to drop you off! So farewell! Be gone! Good riddance and kind regards! Have fun in Tamriel! Ta ta!”

Hardly had he spoken these words or a strange, purple magic energy surrounded him. He turned to the God of Madness, utterly shocked, trying to get a last word in but it was already too late. Suddenly, the Hunter found himself teleporting away, only to suddenly made a rough landing in on a dusty, earthen ground.

He swore in his native tongue, then scrambled up. He cautiously looked around, wondering just where in the damned world he had ended up this time. A quick look revealed trees, much like the ones he had grown up around, yet something told him that this was definitely not the Schwarzwald… 

Not that it concerned him that much. It was in that very instant he was aware that he didn’t have a scrap of clothing on him. An immediate sense of shame overtook him and he desperately tried to cover his most intimate parts, desperate looking for some way to protect his modesty.

After a few moments of frantic searching, his eyes found what looked like a small cottage not too far away from him. Battered looking, even from a distance, but the only sign of immediately civilization that he saw. He perked up and started to walk towards it. 

In the back of his mind, he knew that if its owner was home, they would no doubt frown at finding a naked man on their doorstep. In fact, that would be the mildest possible reaction. Still, he was immensely vulnerable right now and if they were so good to at least throw him some breeches, he’d already be grateful.

Yet as he got close to the house, that optimism slowly faded away as he got a good look at it. These place didn’t just look decrepit, it looked downright…unsettling. Spikes surrounded it on all sides and the sharp points were adorned with severed heads and other disturbing charms. It gave the place a very dark, morbid air. Like the witch’s home from the fairytales…

He could feel his blood freeze at his veins at that very thought. He stopped, nailed to the ground as his old childhood fears came back to the fore. Deep inside him, the urge to run returned and he’d never been more of a mind to actually heed it.

His adult reasoning only barely won out, reminding him that he wouldn’t have any chance to survive this forest if he were completely naked. His best chance of survival was to look through that cabin. He was a Hunter of the Church and he had fought witches before. That was the only thing he had to hold on to and ensure he moved forward.

Soon, he had approached the house, but rather than his fears dissipating, they only increased. In front of it lay a decaying body, but while he initially dismissed it as an old lady, a closer look revealed a much more disturbing truth. The woman’s features were nothing like those of a human, exaggerated and almost birdlike, with feathers and avian toes to boot. Her hands were turned to claws and a strange staff lay beside her. The witch…so close to how he imagined her as a child…

Again, he almost ran again yet somehow his instinct for survival still held sway. This witch, however powerful she may have been in life, was dead. Someone had already come here and killed her, meaning he was completely safe to search her cabin. He let out a shuddering sigh at that. At least fate was somewhat merciful on him after all.

Indeed, it seemed to smile on him at least somewhat. Outside the witch’s house was a chest and in it, he indeed found a change of clothes and shoes. They fit him awkwardly, but it was a lot better than having to go naked. It even had coins, some apples and raw potatoes and a finely made greatsword, which he took as well just to feel safe.

After he’d gathered everything useful, he wanted nothing more than leave this wretched place. Yet one look at the sky outside told him this was perhaps not the best idea. It was swiftly becoming dark now and the plains beyond looked foreboding and teeming with unknown, bloodthirsty wildlife.

The Hunter in Ludwig knew what to do and once, he would have readily complied with that. Now, however, the frightened child in him practically wept. His best bet of survival was staying here for the night. In this rundown cabin, with the spikes with animal heads and the witch’s corpse right on the front porch….

That night was easily the most sleepless one he had experienced in his life. The inside of the house was filled with the blood and remains of both humans and animals, the apples barely sated his hunger and the dead body just outside the house made him uneasy. If he slept at all, he dreamed of the Hunter’s Nightmare, or Sheogorath cutting him open. Or even worse, of being a little boy thrown into an oven, to be eaten by a witch just like the one laying outside.

That last one had awoken him screaming and, unable to take it anymore, he had marched outside. He had used his new sword to decapitate the dead body, just to make certain it couldn’t spring to life again somehow. That had calmed him somewhat, but the rest of the night was still restless all the same.

Alone, lying on that bed that smelled of blood, death and the Gods knew what else, Ludwig felt even worse than before. What was he going to do? He had no idea where he was or what was on the plains beyond. He was as far from home as could possibly be, perhaps in the afterlife seeing how he died in the Nightmare, but one that seemed to be made of his worst fever dreams. 

Was there any form of civilization here? Any place with normal humans such as himself? Some place where other lost souls converged, where the monsters from his childhood couldn’t reach him. He certainly hoped so as he lay there shivering and hungry, trying not to look at the blood and bones strewn around the cabin and desperately wishing it would soon became daytime, if such a thing existed here at all.

It almost felt like a lifetime had passed when the sun finally came up and never had the first rays of daylight looked so beautiful to him. What was the last time he had actually seen the sun, in the night eternal that was Yharnam? That gave him some sense of comfort, though not much.

Forcing himself to keep a raw potato down, he left the cabin as soon as the world had turned to light and started walking in the opposite direction of it. He dreaded the idea of staying there any longer. Surely anywhere was better than here.

So he wandered, nervous at every little sound as he found his way across the plains, amidst boiling hot water springs and volcanic ash. Occasionally, he found giant skeletons lying here and there, like the long extinct saurians his family members in Berlin used to study, except he noticed with a shudder that these things didn’t seem millions of years old. That thought unsettled him as much as the thought of any Beasts.

For hours and hours he walked, constantly losing his way and finding it again only to lose it soon after. Everything in this place looked the same to him, equally strange and hostile. Once or twice, he had to fend off what looked like a long extinct sabertooth tiger and the sight of this kind of enemy alone did little for his sanity. He slowly started to believe that it was the reason Sheogorath had sent him here in the first place. After all, what would enjoy a mad God more than seeing a mortal go mad again?

He kept walking, aimlessly, until he finally found a road, which he happily followed northwards. By now, his stomach was positively growling and the volcanic terrain made him thirsty beyond belief. He could see even more predatory animals roam the plains in the distance and with every step he took, he felt more depleted.

Finally, he sank by the side of the road, tired beyond words. Sweat was pouring off him and his throat was parched. He barely even had the strength to lift his sword anymore and a terrifying thought came to him. Was he going to die in this Nightmare all over again?

Then, out of nowhere, he spied something. Something that wasn’t a skeleton or a wild animal. A shape, humanoid in form, coming down the road. It made him perk up. He had no idea whether this person was hostile or not, but right now he was in such a bad shape that he was willing to take a risk, if only for directions or a sip of water.

He used his sword to rise to his feet and, gathering his last ounce of strength, he shouted. “Hello? Please excuse me... I need help! Please, help…”

Part of him knew he was perhaps wasting his energy. After all, how many people feigned injury at the roadside as part of an ambush? He expected that at any moment, this person would divert her path to avoid him and simply leave him here, left to his own devices, to die of hunger, thirst or fatigue before the night came... 

The human, however, stopped in its tracks and turned in his direction. He swore she looked right at him, as if the assess him from a distance. Then, the shape practically rushed at him, covering ground so fast he could hardly blink. Within seconds, it was at his side, stooping down and suddenly, his whole world stood still as it spoke a single word.

“Ludwig?”

The sound of his name, spoken by a familiar female voice, had his eyes widen. He looked up and stared at the stranger’s face, only to then realize she wasn’t a stranger at all. He knew that face better than anyone else’s and something to him that for once, this was no dream.

“H-Henriett?”

The mention of her name made her smile brightly, only to frown when she determined his sorry state. Before he could say a word, she reached into her knapsack and pulled out a bottle of purified water, then put it to his lips. He drank greedily, then tore into the chunk of bread she gave him. He could cry at how good it tasted, then actually did so when he looked upon his companion’s face.

She was here. Henriett, his faithful friend during the Hunt, was here in this unknown place. He was no longer alone… Instantly, he could feel his spirits lifting, only to quickly fall again when a worrying thought came over him. 

“Are you dead too?”

She stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. “No, silly, I’m not dead and neither are you. Well, not in this place anyway. I live here now, nearby in Kynesgrove. I was about to collect samples here on the plane. Though to be fair, this was the very last thing I expected to find today…”

That moment she said those words, he froze for a moment. His mind flashed across everything he had gone through, the fright of his experiences fading away when he suddenly understood. Sheogorath hadn’t been entirely without direction, especially when he threw him out. He had not brought him here to torment him. He had brought him here knowing that Henriett, someone he cared about and trusted, would likely find him. 

So shocked was he at that revelation that he barely noticed how his fellow Hunter pulled him up and motioned him to walk. “Come. Samples can wait. I’ll get you back to Kynesgrove and then you must tell me how in the world you ended up here.”

He didn’t protest as she helped him put one foot in front of the other, feeling safer and happier than he’d been in a long time. The Nightmare was over, his wits and human form returned to him and he was with someone he knew and trusted. All thanks to a deity whose motivations he couldn’t possibly begin to understand. 

He laughed, the laugh of a man who found the purest form of sanity in the insane. “Oh, it’s quite a story, Henriett. Quite an unbelievable story too. In fact, you might actually think me mad…”


	16. Waking Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Maria confronts her darkest dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little change in schedule: I was initially going to do Gratia's chapter first. However, her chapter turned out incredibly long and actually has an impact on the overall world of Skyrim, making it seem like a better story to close out on. As such, I decided to switch these characters around and have Maria go first. Hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Also, for those who know one of my favorite crack pairings, I tried my best to refrain as best as possible. Forgive me. XD

All her life, Maria had suffered from nightmares.

Even when she was a little girl, there was many a night her screams woke up her parents and they would find her sitting up in bed, petrified and eyes wide with terror. She would dream of monsters under her bed, of the bogeyman in her closet. Of all of the dark, creepy and crawly things that a child was convinced lurked in the night. 

Some said it was a common malady for those of Cainhurst blood. Of those who carried the twisted, cursed blood of the family’s matriarch Queen Annalise. This supposed blessing, that would allow one to commune with the Great Ones, also brought this terrible curse. The arcane blood, that burned and scorched within in her, begging and cajoling her to tap into it, to be let out. That haunted her until she did.

When she grew, first into an adolescent and then a woman, the nightmares didn’t leave. If anything, they got worse and the things that filled it ever more twisted. After all, as she matured, she learned that the real world offered far more terrifying things than childish imagination ever could, many caused by her own hand as a student of Byrgenwerth and a Hunter of the Church.

The things she had seen were indescribable. The corruption and perversion of her family, the Cainhurst clan, as well as their subsequent massacre by the Executioners. The revelations of the Great Ones in Byrgenwerth. The discovery of Kos and the massacre she herself had participated in in the Fishing Hamlet. The horrific curse caused by her violation, which turned the people of Yharnam into violent beasts. The inhumane experiments in the Research Hall of the Church. The slaughter of these violated bodies that took place in the streets…

The night terrors only amplified these horrid memories, until nighttime became something she feared even more than any beast. The guilt of her actions weighed on her, crushing her each time she closed her eyes. Soon, she could not escape it and as dreams grew ever more horrifying and her comrades succumbed to their own madness one by one, she eventually retreated to the Astral Clocktower, where she consumed poison and slit her own throat just to be free of her burden.

Yet even death refused to grand her release.

When she came to, she found herself trapped in the Hunter’s Nightmare. It was here, she once again found herself confronted with all of her misdeeds. The body of Kos was here, as was the Fishing Hamlet. The mutilated patients still screamed in the Research Hall and the old hunters still slaughtered beasts. In this purgatory, she didn’t dream; she was awake and now, the Nightmares were real.

Still, as she had done all her life, she refused to simply fall to her knees and despair. Trapped forever in the terrors that haunted her sleep, she tried to attain some small manner of peace. She looked after the Research Hall patients, even when she knew she could do nothing for them. She paid her respects to Kos and begged the late Great One to forgive her. Yet most importantly, she installed herself in the Astral Clocktower, to stop any foolish Hunter from venturing into the Fishing Hamlet and prevent the same mistake she and Byrgenwerth had made so long ago.

Yet now, even that task was done. Perhaps, the fatigue and despair of her fate had finally taken their toll. A Hunter, barely a whelp, had somehow gotten the better of her, even though she had been desperate enough to use her family’s hated blood magic to stop him. After a long and hard battle, he had cut her down and as she lay dying on that cold, splintering floor, she swore she could almost see sorrow on his face as he watched her pass away.

And now, she was here, wherever that might be. Shrouded in darkness, like a bitterly cold winter night without any stars or moon. A place so silent that she swore she could hear her own heartbeat and blood rushing in her ears. Silent like death, yet after so long, almost peaceful.

Was this true death? The true fate that lay beyond the veil, away from Great Ones and the Nightmares of their making? Just an endless void, free of any stimulation. Only black, the foundation of pure nothing from which all creation sprang.

She sat amidst this endless expanse, not wishing the move. What point was there? So long had she been plagued by horrors of both the waking and the dreaming world, that this nothingness could not frighten her. This inertia suited her and she could only hope that it would eventually swallow her whole, into a state of nonexistence.

So intent was she on this that she barely even noticed the cold that suddenly swept across this dark oblivion. Yet a cold wind suddenly started to stir the loose strands of her silver blond hair and a chill swept through the space. Faint traces of noise echoed ever so quietly in the distance and a presence, silent like a shadow, crept close.

She was no longer alone.

Maria didn’t move a muscle. She looked up, eyes darting left and right, trying the best to follow the entity to the best of her Hunter’s instincts. What it was remained a mystery to her, as it was practically invisible in the darkness. Yet as it approached her ever so slowly, she could not help but feel it was malevolent.

Then, as she blinked just so briefly, it was there. Flighty as a thought, it had appeared next to her. It leaned in close, like a fox taking its time to kill a hare. She felt revulsion bubble up in her stomach when ice cold fingers suddenly caressed her shoulder and an almost childlike voice whispered in her ear. 

“What have we here? A tortured soul, lost in the ether?”

The Huntress didn’t respond. Something in her gut told her it was a very dangerous thing to do so. She simply waited, silently, in anticipation of whatever would happen.

The being noticed this and giggled. “My, we aren’t very talkative, are we? No matter. I have a way of worming myself inside of someone’s head.”

Those words, spoken in a gleeful and singsong voice, had Maria grit her teeth. So she was right about this entity being evil. Still, if it wanted her to show fear, it wouldn’t be easy. She was not afraid of pain and torture.

The creature laughed as if it sensed her thoughts. “Something tells me you’ll make that very easy for me. I sense a taint about you. The mark of one who is not unfamiliar with the terrors that sleep can bring. Oh, the horrors you must have seen… I wonder if I could even possibly add to that.”

It was there that Maria stirred, if only for a second. So the being was aware of her nightmares. How could she know? After all, hiding her restless nights was a skill she had learned well, even better than those of a Huntress.

The shadow seemed amused. “You know not who I am? Well, you should. I am what lurks in the shadows behind you. Who brings your dreadful memories with you when you sleep. What twists water and bread into blood and flesh when you close your eyes. I am Vaermina, the Daedric Prince of Nightmares, and your mind is the rich soil from which I feed.”

Now, her voice had lowered to a sly whisper and the slithery noise was what finally caused the Huntress’s skin to crawl. She swallowed, but her throat was so dry she felt like choking. A sliver of fear worked itself into her being and for the slightest moment, she went cold. 

A creature of nightmares? Did such a thing truly exist even here? After all she had gone through, even after dying a horrific death, was there still something here to keep her tormented. A feeling of pure terror came over her, but she barely had time to respond as Vaermina spoke again.

“Hm, let’s not dawdle any longer, shall we? Off to my Quagmire we go, to see what inspiration I can draw from you. Oh, what fun will we have…”

Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning and thunder cracked all around her like the blow of a whip. It was so bright and searing that the darkness was immediately banished. She too was caught in the blast and on instinct, she closed her eyes and curled up, certain she’d be annihilated then and there. 

Yet nothing happened and as she dared to look again, she noticed the blackness all around her had vanished. Now, she stood in an unfamiliar place, with a sky shifting from deep blue to blood red and back again. Lightning flashed through ominous black clouds and all around her was a wasteland of broken ruins and ravaged landscapes.

The place sent a chill down her spine. Not because it felt so unnatural; she’d seen too much of that be affected. It was rather that, at the rotten beating heart of it, it held something indescribable. The same kind of darkness, that nameless fear that haunted her nighttime, was here and it seemed seeped into every pore of this land.

That frightening notion made her want to move. Hesitantly, she set one foot in front of the other. There had to be some way out of here and whatever it took, she was going to find it.

Suddenly, lightning flashed before her eyes, the thunder ringing in her ears. She blinked and then, the landscape was no more. Instead, she found herself standing in a long dark hallway. She recognized it immediately. She was back in Cainhurst.

Stunned, she followed the familiar corridor, right to where she knew her room was. Her heart nearly stopped as she found, the gnarled door of oak looking exactly like how she remembered it. She reached out to touch it, but before she could put her fingertips to the wood, a horrific scream shook the hallway on its foundations.

Immediately, the door opened and she ceased to breathe as she found herself confronted with a young girl. The girl stared back, but it was as if she looked right through her. Instead, she focused on the sound of the screams in the distance slowly morphing into roars.

“Mommy? Daddy?”

Then, like that, the little girl started to run, in that fast slippery way only children could. It was there Maria was freed from her spell and as shock spread through her system, she frantically started to pursue. She knew that little girl and she knew exactly what she was going to see.

She ran, as fast she could, yet somehow she never managed to catch up. She could only watch in horror, beg to deaf ears not to, when the child pried open the door to her parents’ bedroom and looked inside. She turned pale and gasped and when Maria caught up and looked inside, she saw the terrifying image she had feared.

A bloodlicker, with features that showed a vague resemblance to her mother, sucking the blood with a proboscis-like tongue from the mangled corpse of her father.

The girl screamed and instantly, the monster turned to her. It was about to leap in her direction and Maria was about to throw herself in front of it when there was the sound of a gunshot. Several Cainhurst Knights charged into the room, throwing themselves at the tick-like monstrosity and stabbing it to death with their chikages. Meanwhile, a tall and regal woman ran up to the little girl. She pulled her back to the gruesome display, then held her close, allowing the girl to bury her face into her shoulder. She didn’t look nearly as fearsome without her crown and in her silk nightgown, but the words she spoke to the girl were the ones the Huntress remembered all too well.

“Oh, Maria. Do not look. Please, do not look. I am here. It is alright to cry. I am so sorry, little one. I am so sorry. I never wished for this to happen to any of us…”

Neither of the two figures noticed her and Maria simply stood nailed to the ground as she watched the bitter memory of her childhood play out. She stared, unable to swallow or make a noise. All she could do was silently take it in, as memories and emotions long buried flooded over her once more.

In the distance, she could hear the thunder rumble and a flash of lightning crashed between her and the image. Suddenly, the halls of Cainhurst were gone and in its place where the courtyard of the castle she had grown up in, littered with its old, crumbling statues. A grey sky cast a somber light on the place and the snow was stained red as she looked over a great sea of corpses.

All around her, so she saw the bodies of Cainhurst Knights as well as Executioners, their remains left as food for the Bloodlickers that seemed to crawl from the crevices. This too was something burned in her memory. The purge of Cainhurst, which happened after she ran away from home and joined Byrgenwerth. A purge she might not have survived either, had Gehrman not helped her hide the fact she was of what they called Vileblood descent.

She walked across the courtyard and felt nauseous. She knew most of these knights, grew up with him. She had ridden on their shoulders when she was little and they had taught her how to fence. Yet here they lay, dead and torn, food for beasts, along with the mad zealots who wished them dead. 

Even from behind the walls of Cainhurst Castle, she could hear the wailing of noblewomen. Of their ghosts, with either their throats cut or their entire heads removed. She knew exactly how they looked and she couldn’t bear to go in. She couldn’t bear to see her aunts and cousins, her relatives, in such a wretched state.

As she sat there at the fountain, looking over this massacre, she could hear footsteps. She looked up, only to freeze when she saw a group of people burst through the gates. She immediately recognized the golden helmets and Logarius’ wheels. Executioners and they had already seen her.

“There’s one! Another Vileblood! Kill her! Kill the corrupted!”

Within moments, the group stormed towards her, weapons in hand. Noticing the disturbing lack of her own, Maria jumped up. Her eyes went to the gates of the Castle, her fight or flight instinct kicking in as she just hoped she would make it. Yet just as she was about to run, the lightning had returned.

Now, she found herself on the beach at the Fishing Hamlet. Behind her was the washed up corpse of Kos, precisely how she and the other scholars of Byrgenwerth found it. It lay there, dead and rotten, the same stench so strong it almost made her want to gag.

She stood back, coughing as she covered her mouth. It was only then that she noticed something was not quite as it had been, on that fateful day that everything went wrong. Under the skin of the dead Great One, she could see parasites like the ones that had infected the village, wriggling and crawling as they tried to burst through. The sight made her nauseous, but it didn’t remotely prepare her for what happened next.

The Huntress almost screamed as the Great One suddenly started moving. She lifted her head, turning her uncannily human face towards her. Her mouth opened to speak, her voice a whisper and a roar all at once. She cursed her and the rest of Byrgenwerth for her desecration of her body, for the atrocities they committed for their own gain and for the crimes they committed upon her child. She told her that she hoped she would rot forever, plagued by guilt and horror as long as her soul remained aware. 

At the same time, Maria could see how her belly moved and twisted. Suddenly, the Great One’s child burst forth from between her legs, dragging itself into the world. There, it screeched and when it looked at her, it rushed at her to tear her apart limb for limb.

Then, thunder drowned out their inhuman screams. Again, the landscape had changed. Yet if she had even remotely hoped things might get better, she was wrong.

Every time lightning struck, a new horrific image was revealed to her. She saw everything, each little thing that had ever haunted her dreams. Except this time, it was somehow even more gruesome than her own mind could have conjured.

She was back in the Fishing Hamlet, watching herself rounding up and killing villagers with the other Hunters. Then in the Research Hall, the patients clawing at her and begging her for guidance. The district of Old Yharnam and its citizens burning. Those closest to her mutating into horrific Beasts or being torn apart by them, while others went mad with knowledge.

All these images flashed by her ceaselessly, mercilessly. They assaulted her from all sides, never giving her a second to recuperate or even properly deal with them. Soon, every sound and sight became a madding blur and she swore she could feel her sanity slipping away from her.

When thunder and lightning struck once more, the first thing she noticed was the quiet. This time, there were no screams, no curses. There was no smell of blood or decay. Only this deep, deathly quiet that was almost a relief after all she had seen. It made her look more closely and once more, she knew the vision laid before her.

The Astral Clocktower, the place where she had taken her own life.

Her entire body felt like it was encased in ice, especially when she saw the same old chair at the end of the room with someone on it. Despite this, she stepped forward, determined to go see even after everything she had witnessed. After all, having experienced so much horror, surely she could handle the sight of her own corpse?

Yet, as she came close, she then saw it was not her body that sat in its chair. Instead, there was another, dressed in an elegant but conservative dress, a bonnet and a mantle. A stranger, one she couldn’t immediately recognize. She cautiously came closer, but as she reached out to touch the person, it suddenly jerked and looked up at her.

“Welcome home, Lady Maria. We have been waiting for you so very long.”

This time, Maria did scream. How could she not? It had been at that very moment, when the person came into view, that she realized it was not a person at all. She was looking at a large puppet of sorts, yet if it had any strings she couldn’t see them. In fact, its movements were so fluent she almost wondered if there weren’t string or gears at all. Yet that was not what disturbed her so.

This…thing had her voice…and her face.

She could only watch it in utter horror, fear, disgust and panic taking hold of her all at once. How? How could a thing like that exist? She knew for certain that this was not some kind of haunting of her own creation. This had to come from somewhere else and even then, she wondered what kind of sick mind would think of this.

The Doll cocked her head at her, seemingly amused. “You do not know who I am? Ah, of course not. I am a doll, created in your image by Gehrman, then given life by the Moon Presence.”

It was there the Huntress stilled. This…thing knew Gehrman, claimed it was its creator. She didn’t want to believe it. Why would Gehrman, her beloved mentor whom she admired so much, go as far as to create a doll based on her? A doll that, from the looks of it, was not like her at all?

The puppet giggled. “Why are you so surprised? The First Hunter desired you greatly, lusted with his every waking thought of what you could be to him. The Hunt must have truly distracted you if you did not notice. And even if you did, would you have cared, as one so casual about suffering?”

As the object droned on, with conviction and the transparency she knew for truth, Maria suddenly felt the urge to vomit. Gehrman had made…this? This facsimile of her? This seemingly sentient object, crafted and dressed so obsessively? She had always been close with her mentor and greatly admired him, yet never in her lifetime had she even remotely suspected something this utterly disturbing. Not even when her fellow Hunters had tried to warn her.

Yet what revolted her even more than his apparent obsession with her was just how his creation behaved. It was nothing like her, with its soft-spoken demeanor and almost servant-like courtesy. Even the clothes were something she would never consider wearing. Her stomach turned. All her life, Gehrman had trained her and complimented her strength, fieriness and tenacity. Is that what he had truly wanted her to be? This meek, subservient mockery of whom she was?

She was feeling sick, sicker than she did seeing any of the other things that had haunted her. Had nothing ever been sacred? Nothing at all? Not even perhaps the only time of her life where she was wholly happy?

The Doll saw her distress, yet still maintained that eerie calmness. “Perhaps it was better that he made me. I serve him, his every whim. I love him as he made me in a way you could never. After all, what love could a wicked Vileblood possibly give? It is in your blood to experience and spread misery and that shall be your curse.”

“Vileblood.”

It was that word that that hit her like a prod of electricity. Vileblood… The slur the Church used to describe those with the blood of Cainhurst. The outcasts, the pariahs. The one thing she had spent her entire life trying to deny and run from. The cursed blood inside her, that pleaded with her to get out…

It was there the clock of the tower toiled and suddenly, all of her emotions came to a head. A deep-sated rage took hold of her and any composure she previously held on to ceased to be. A feral scream left her mouth and then she felt a cutting pain, before her world was alight with blood and flame. 

The Doll then screamed as well, as she and the room caught fire. Maria could only watch as the porcelain cracked and crumbled and the old wooden floor was incinerated, flames greedily devouring everything all around them. They never stopped, until finally, the entire inside of the Astral Clocktower was burned away. 

For a moment, the Huntress stood there shocked. Once again, she was back in the ruined landscape she had arrived in, every threatening to shift into something gruesome. There was no sign of the tower or any other of the nightmarish places from her past. What more, she was no longer unarmed.

She could only stare in amazement at the Rakuyo in her hands, the weapon that hadn’t been there before. Had she summoned it here? Had it come into this nightmare by her will? 

The Huntress realized she felt strong now. Stronger than she ever felt, as the blood inside her sang and danced, overjoyed to be tapped into at last. The last drops lingering outside her body burned like cinder and she saw how they wore away at the ruined ground. The power of it took her aback. Was this what she could be? A thing that affected this horrific Quagmire? By no longer denying just what she was and what she was capable of?

She didn’t marvel at that idea for very long. Instead, her eye was drawn to a structure in the middle of this ruined land. A tall citadel black as night, ornate and imposing, built for a king…or possibly a Prince…

Her eyes narrowed as she started to walk. Thunder signified another change and another vision from her slumber assaulted her, her fellow Hunter Ludwig crying for help as he transformed. She casually stabbed the phantom with her Rakuyo, burning it to a crisp, a process she repeated every time the lightning struck as she made her way to the power. She had a goal now. Escape, though not through the means of a coward…

It was with furious destruction that she descended onto the structure. Its guards, strange creatures she had never seen before, rushed in to stop her. They never even had a chance. Without thinking, she cut them down, wave after wave, setting fire to every crevice as she headed up the stairs to make it to the top floor.

She kicked open its doors, so hard that the wood splintered under the force. Now drenched in blood, she stepped inside the throne room. Immediately, she locked eyes with the creature sitting across the room, on an elaborate throne of blackened human bones. Vaermina looked even more horrific with her form revealed and the smile she showed made anyone’s skin crawl. 

“So you have actually made it through my realm to my citadel? Interesting… You’re hardier than I thought.”

The Huntress simply sneered at her as she approached. She straightened her back, every step measured. As horrific as his deity of nightmares was, all fear was gone at this point. There was only hatred and a deep desire to make this monster pay for all it had put her through. The Daedric Prince seemed to notice her resolution and laughed.

“You wish intend to challenge me? Me? A Daedric Prince? Foolish little mortal. I need but snap my fingers and your mind will be overwhelmed by dark visions of my design!”

She then demonstrated this by doing so and immediately, Maria could feel her own mind turn against her. Images of monsters under the bed to genocides in the Yharnam streets tugged at her psyche, determined to render her sanity asunder once more. Yet this time, she didn’t give in. Instead, she pushed the blades of her Rakuyo into her own body and unleashed a torrent of fire onto her tormentor. 

Vaermina shrieked as she was incinerated on the spot, her immortal flesh burning and charring where she sat. She clawed and roared, wanting to curse but unable to as waves of agony washed over her. Maria simply watched, unmoved, watching the deity calmly as she writhed in anguish.

After a while, the flames burned out and the Prince of Nightmares gasped for breath. The Huntress saw how her flesh started to reform, bit by bit in an effort to undo the damage. Ice blue eyes met her gray ones filled with hatred and the Cainhurst noble looked her over calmly.

“I know my own nightmares, Vaermina. Now, I am your nightmare. I am not trapped in your realm any longer. You are trapped in this realm with me.”

If her tormentor even trembled at all, it was very brief and she hissed back her response. “You insipid sack of flesh. I cannot die! You cannot kill me!”

Maria simply smirked and it was there, she could actually sense fear on an immortal being. “Good. Because I do not intend to. I am planning to keep this up for a very long time...”

With that, she sent forth another burst of flaming blood. Within seconds, the regenerated flesh was once again eaten away. The Huntress burned her to a blackened husk inside that ugly black armor of hers, only to pause to gather her strength and do it again.

Over and over, she set the deity alight. Without a sliver of emotion, she looked on, as her raven hair burned up. As her skin boiled, then flaked. Watching those inhuman icy blue eyes melt in their sockets. This creature of nightmares had chosen the wrong kind of victim to feed off. She was a Cainhurst and nightmares were what she knew most intimately.

The room had started to smell of burnt flesh when Vaermina had seemingly reached her limit. She turned to her, her ruined visage more horrific than ever. In that brief second before Maria intended to set her on fire once more, she screamed out, in rage and in pain.

“Be gone! By Oblivion, be gone, you wretched Vileblood! Go away from this world and leave me and Quagmire be! Be gone and do not ever visit upon my realm again!”

She raised her hand, charred bones sticking out and suddenly, the room was heavy with magic. As the Huntress looked over her shoulder, a black void opened up. Startled, she moved, but not nearly fast enough as it swallowed her whole and she was once again cast into the darkness. 

She tumbled though an endless black pit, sometimes moving upwards, then downwards. She moved in no way that gravity could possibly conceive of, until she was finally dizzy and disorientated. She wondered if she would fall forever, doomed to forever be trapped in the dark, forever separated from everything and anything.

Then, as suddenly as the fall had started, it stopped. Out of nowhere, the void seemingly spat her out, like a scrap of food that could not be properly chewed. She found herself lying on a cold stone floor, in a place that had the smell of abandonment upon it.

Still, Maria didn’t have the faculties to actually worry about where she had ended up. All she knew was that she was somehow no longer in Quagmire and that she could no longer feel Vaermina’s presence or even the fire burning in her veins. That was enough for now and with her mind and body worn, she closed her eyes, sinking into unconsciousness once more.

When the first stirrings of the waking world were upon her, she didn’t want to open her eyes. While her body was rested, her mind was very tired. She recalled the events before her sleep so vividly, the horrors etched into her mind. If she chose to awake, what terrifying events awaited her this time?

In the end, however, she could not sleep forever, no matter how badly she wanted to. Her conscious returned to the waking world once more. Eventually, she could no longer wield herself back to slumber and braced herself as she finally dared to look into the world again, fearing the worst.

The first thing she noticed, however, was what looked like the ceiling of a canopy bed. As this got through to her plagued mind, she frowned and sat up, convinced she was simply not seeing well. Yet the ceiling remained as her eyes adjusted and it was there she determined that she lay on a comfortable featherbed. She jerked as she noticed her naked skin brush against the warm covers and the sudden feeling of vulnerability prompted her to look at the rest of her environment.

The sight of it was nothing like she expected. She was in a room, the style of which somewhat reminded her of Cainhurst Castle, except with a touch that also brought drawings of old Viking halls to mind. A few candles burned here and there, pale in the light that entered through the windows. The shelves were stacked with books and archaic weapons as well as an assortment of unusual knickknacks. A foot or so away, she could see a table with some chairs, holding a tray with several types of pastries. The whole room was notably well-kept, as if the person who owned it took great pride in keeping everything cleaned and organized.

Still, this place was utterly unfamiliar to her and after all she’d been through, she wasn’t so sure this wasn’t just another bad situation waiting to happen. After all, just how on earth had she ended up here without any clothes. She sat up, sheet still clutched to her chest, looking for something to cover herself and get out of here.

“Ah, you’re awake! How fortunate!”

The sound of a man’s voice startled her and she whipped her head in its direction. In the doorway of the room stood someone she definitely didn’t know. He was relatively tall, though still shorter than her own impressive stature by an inch or two. He had long, blond hair tied back and was dressed in simple armor. 

He approached her with a smile, but seeing how she was in a strange bed unclothed, she wasn’t exactly receptive of that. Instantly, her eyes went to what looked like an axe lying on the nightstand and she reacted. Within seconds, the weapon was against his throat, while she used her free arm to hold the sheet up to her chest.

The man stopped in his tracks, but while his face fell, she noticed he didn’t look particularly alarmed or even annoyed. Instead, he dropped the bundle he was holding and raised his hands to show they were empty. When he spoke again, he still sounded calm and friendly. 

“Calm down. I’ve no intention of hurting you. Please, put down the weapon and let’s talk. You must be feeling very confused right now.”

Maria’s upper lip curled up, as “confused” didn’t remotely cover her current sentiments. “Who are you? How did I get here? Why am I naked?”

His answer was quick and without hesitation. “I found you like that at the abandoned Nightcaller Temple near Dawnstar while visiting friends. I wanted to bring you to the inn there, but they thought it was an ill omen and refused to have you. They have no shop to buy clothes there either, so I just wrapped you up in a bear skin and brought you back home here in Solitude. Then I put you to bed to wait for you to wake up.”

His whole tale sounded bizarre, but it was spoken with so much conviction and ease that it didn’t appear to be made up. Slowly, she started to lower the axe, before finally putting it back on the nightstand. The man took the moment to stoop down and pick up the bundle again, presenting it to her. She noticed that they were garments.

“I’ve got some clothes for you now if you want. My housecarl got them for you. We didn’t feel right putting them on you while you were still asleep…”

Feeling anything but comfortable with her current state, she was quick to accept them. Before she could tell the man to either leave or turn around, he already left of his own accord. She watched him go down what seemed like some stairs, but she didn’t think about it for long as she quickly slipped into what he had provided. The clothes were comfortable and of good make, more or less befitting her height. 

Only a few moments later, the man returned. This time, he was carrying a tray with what, unlike the pastries on the plate, looked like actual breakfast. He then placed it on the nearby table, pushing aside other stuff and offered her to sit on one of the chairs.

“You must be hungry.”

Despite her still present misgivings, she definitely couldn’t argue with that statement. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate, much less anything other than the stale, rotten fare Yharnam had had to offer. If anything, the simple meal of milk, bread, butter, goat cheese and apples was nothing short of a feast to her. She quite happily devoured it, not even caring her host had not provided her with forks or knives, quietly reveling in the first good thing she’d experienced in a while.

The man simply sat down and let her sate the better part of her hunger before he spoke again. “So, may I ask your name?”

She glanced at him briefly as she tore off another chunk of bread, still unwilling to share too much. “Maria.” 

He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Maria. I am Solaire. Welcome to my home in Solitude. Allow me to venture a guess that you are not from here.”

The Huntress gave him a look, unsure on what exactly to answer. “It all depends on what “here” is. Would you believe it if I said that the last thing I remember, I was in a nightmare?”

He sat back comfortably. “Well, I found you in an abandoned temple of Vaermina, so I suppose I would. Yet what I truly mean is, you are not familiar with a place called Skyrim. Or Tamriel, for that matter?”

Maria blinked, then remained silent. What on earth was Skyrim or Tamriel? She was highly educated in geography in her youth, but if these were places, she never heard of them. Much to her suspicion, Solaire didn’t seem surprised and seemed to study her for a moment.

“I thought so. Still, have you heard of Yharnam, by any chance?”

Instantly, she sat up at hearing the name of her city and stared at him, causing his face to light up. “Ah, so I’m right. You have the same look in your eye as others I’ve met from there. A kind of fatigue that comes from a brush with madness.”

She definitely couldn’t fault him on that observation. Those who dwelled in Yharnam usually had a measure of insanity about them, in one form or another. Still, the way he talked about her home didn’t sound like he’d actually been there. More like he had heard thought others. Even so, that still didn’t explain the practically archaic armor he was wearing either.

“Perhaps I am going mad. I do not understand how I got here or where I even am. Is this all some kind of dying dream? At least it is not too terrible now…”

Her host smiled. “Oh, I assure you. You’re not dreaming or mad. Come, eat and drink, regain your strength. I will tell you all that I can.”

The next few hours were some of the oddly calmest that Maria had experienced in a long time. The room she stayed in was warm and pleasant, soothing her spirit after so long of dreary cold. She simply sat as Solaire explained all about how he knew of Yharnam and how she had apparently made a bizarre trans-dimensional journey right after her death in the Astral Clocktower.

Initially, she was convinced he was crazy as well. How could he not be, if he believed something this senseless? Yet as he started to mention the names of people she knew from her time in Byrgenwerth and the Hunter’s Workshop, people he apparently knew well enough to describe in detail, she slowly became convinced he couldn’t be making this up. Apparently, she had literally fallen into another world, with a detour into the realm of a demonic deity for good measure.

The whole realization left her greatly disorientated, wondering what she were to do now. After all, what would one do when one was thrust into an entirely different world. Her host, however, was quick to provide a solution. He promised to get her into contact with fellow Yharnamites who had settled here, stating they’d might like to see her. Additionally, until she found her feet again, she could stay here at his house. She was not the first transcending soul he’d offered hospitality and he doubted she’d be the last. 

Not knowing where else to go, Maria was quick to take him up on that offer. As he left to his duties as a captain of the guard that day, she took to exploring the house. She read some of his many books and talked to his housecarl Jordis. The woman was sweet and patient with her, as well as genuinely positive about her employer, something that she considered a good sign.

When Solaire returned in the evening, he was happy to entertain her as he explained her more about the city they were in, as well as the fascinating history of the land. In the evening the three of them dined on the patio, eating steamed crab legs with creamed potatoes and gourd as well as a crostata made of sour-sweet berries for dessert. As they sat there in the soft summer weather and she found herself treated to the most splendid view, it was for the first time in possibly years that Maria actually found herself genuinely happy and positive. 

That evening, she actually retired to the guest room feeling strangely at ease. It was almost strange to her. She was still at a huge loss about this place she had ended in, wondering just how she was going to survive here. 

Still, she couldn’t help but acknowledge the obvious. Today, she had spent a day without hardship or horror. She’d been at peace for once, in a safe place where she didn’t have to fear what might come for her next. Even her blood had seemed to stop raging, as if passing to this veil between worlds had somehow cleansed it. She couldn’t tell for sure, but she was not about to question it. Wherever she was, it was not a ruined wasteland of pain and madness and for now, that was good enough.

What more, the person whose home she had ended up in clearly looked out of her. Solaire seemed like a kind man with an infectious personality, easy to be around and was clearly going out of his way to help her. She smiled, her mind going back to him entertaining her with stories of his home over dinner. If he was this charming all the time, she might never actually leave this place.

She laughed at that thought and she laid her head on the pillow, feeling safe to fall asleep for the first time in years. She could learn to love this land, she figured, however strange and unknown it might be. Especially if Vaermina had spoken the truth in not wanting her to visit her wretched realm ever again. That thought allowed her to close her eyes with a grin and she comfortably nestled in her warm bed, drifting into a slumber that was pleasantly devoid of nightmares.


	17. Stendarr's Might

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gehrman makes peace.

“The night, and the Dream, were long…”

It was not with bitterness that Gehrman, the First Hunter, spoke those words. Rather, it was with sweet tears. The kind of joy that only one so old as him could feel, an old soul who had lived far longer than he should. 

As he shared one last look with the Hunter who had just cut him down, he almost thought of thanking him. After all, he might not think it, but he had freed him. For once, he would be cut from this wretched place after extending the courtesy to so many others. His only worry was what the Moon Presence might have in mind for this Hunter who might have to take his place…

No, he wasn’t sad to die, his actual body long dead and decayed in the real world. He’d been trapped in this wretched Hunter’s Dream for far too long, his paradise having long turned to his own personal hell. His friends were long gone, his own mind wrecked with age and loneliness. He was glad to leave it all behind, to finally be released from this prison.

All he wanted was to sink into oblivion, to reflect on the mistakes he’d made in peace.

He had made far too many of those during his lifetime. It started when he chose to Byrgenwerth after finishing his apprenticeship as a toymaker, instead of taking up the profession. After all, that was what led him to Kos, to commit the unspeakable acts in the Fishing Hamlet. The acts whose consequences rang through Yharnam even to this very day. 

He’d thought he could fight fate back then. He’d been as stubborn and reckless as any young men back then, thinking he could somehow resist forces that were beyond his control. It had been that arrogance that created the wretched Hunter’s Dream, that trapped countless Hunters in a repeated cycle of life and death. That had become his prison, even when he was too old and too tired to still linger.

Oh, he had not been kind to his fellow Hunters either. He’d disowned Ludwig after he chose to become a Hunter of the Church. Driven Djura to despair. Drove Eileen away. Lusted obsessively after Maria, weaving fantasies around her that never could be, only to get them in the form of the Doll and realize they were not what he wanted at all. His growing indifference and powerless anger had alienated everyone he had ever loved and now, he’d died alone, abandoned by men and gods.

The First Hunter truly believed that. After all, just how long had he prayed to the Gods for things to become better, for them to have mercy and forgiveness for the sake of Yharnam? How long had he prayed to the Moon Presence to be released from this dream? He’d stopped counting by now and all this time, never once had his pleas been acknowledged. 

No, there was no longer any point to ask for forgiveness. He was gone now, left in the dark without a light to guide him. Left with nothing more to lose as he had left the decaying, rotting world that was once his home. Perhaps it was that sense of resignation that had him speak out, tired and dejected, without faith of being heard.

“If there is any merciful god out there, then hear me now. Release me. Release me from my pain and sorrows. Have some compassion for an old man who senselessly threw his life away for pride and folly…”

His words echoes against the black, almost mocking him. They rang inside the hollow space that was now his heart and he sank to the ground. He was so tired now, so sick of waiting for something that would never come. He might as well lay down here and acknowledge defeat.

So absorbed was he in this, that he barely even noticed it when the gloomy expanse shifted. Its eerie quiet was disturbed by the sound of soft footsteps, thick soles touching upon the void. There was a light, faint and flickering, that lit up infinity ever so slightly like a lighthouse casting its signal over an onyx sea.

Gehrman was startled as he suddenly sensed the dim brightness. He jerked and looked up, surprise coming over him. In front of him stood a man, seemingly having materialized from the dark. He looked old and wizened, yet his features were soft and sage. In one hand, he carried a silver horn, akin to a cornucopia. In the other, he carried a lantern, the flame inside pulsing unnaturally like a small, beating heart. 

He stared at him, lost and confused. “Who are you?”

The man looked down at him, saying nothing. He leaned down and brought the lantern close, as if to illuminate his face. For a moment, the First Hunter swore he could see in his soul, exposing every single wrong he’d ever committed. Perhaps he did, as he straightened his back and turned around.

Even though Gehrman had no idea who this man was, this caused him to panic. For some reason, seeing this man here in this unnatural abyss awakened something in him. A sense of need and desperation to survive somehow, that he thought had been snuffed out long ago in the Hunter’s Dream. The idea that he would simply go away again was unbearable. 

“Please, don’t leave me here… Don’t leave me alone…” 

The man looked back at him over his shoulder, remaining silent. It seemed to assess him for a moment, as if he was waiting for something. The two of them stared at each other for a while and the First Hunter didn’t dare move. He almost expected the man to disappear as suddenly as he came, only for him to kneel down and offer his hand. 

The gesture shocked Gehrman, but he didn’t hesitate for a moment as he grabbed hold of it. He rose together with the man and didn’t protest when they started to walk. He clung to his hand tightly, his very being depending on it, following this man with blind faith as he led him through the darkness with the heart-like flame to guide their way. 

It was the mix of a bitter chill and burning wood that had him stir and look up again. He shook himself, then looked around and immediately, he was beset by fright and confusion. The void and old man was gone and instead, he found himself standing in a burned-out building, cinders still warm and traces of smoke still billowing into the sky through a collapsed roof. 

The sight of it made him panicked, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of the icy cold wind lashing at his naked skin. For some reason, he didn’t have a scrap of cloth on his body anymore. How and when that happened, he had no idea, but it only made a baffling situation even worse.

It was only then that he noticed he was clutching something. In his hands was what looked like an unknown shrine, carved from silver in the shape of a horn. The same horn the old man with the lantern had…

He took a step back and another jolt of alarm went through his body. The familiar clicking sound of his wooden leg was nowhere to be heard nor did he no longer feel the phantom pain of the missing leg. On instinct, he looked down. Something between a gasp and a scream left his mouth as he found himself staring at an intact right leg. His mind drew a shocked blank, both from this discovery and another.

As he stared down at his own body, it was not the one that had housed him all those years. Instead, it was the body from long ago, strong and lean, devoid of wrinkles and other markings of old age. Immediately, he reached up to his face and quickly found he felt the same smooth features of his youth there as well. He was young again, his injuries gone as if they had never happened at all and yet he was standing in an unfamiliar place facing a shrine that was likely connected to the old man whose hand he took in the dark. 

That thought caused his mind to spin. Where was the man? Who was he? Was he…responsible for this somehow? Had he brought him here, to this strange burning hall? Was he the reason he now had his leg back and at least sixty years younger? How? What kind of person was capable of such a thing? No person, except… Did that mean…he was a God? And was this burned out husk of a building his temple?

That was a good but overwhelming question, but not one he was currently in a state to find an answer to. Instead, he was now desperate to find something to cover himself, to protect himself from the icy cold. He spied a chest at the far left corner of the building, having seemingly somehow survived the inferno. He rushed over and was happy to find some warm, woolen robes, as well as some food, money, a pickaxe and weaponry. It looked archaic, old swords, maces and axes, but for now, it had to do.

By now, the falling snow has extinguished the remainder of the flames and in his much more comfortable state, he had time to look around. It was only now that he noticed this place was the stage of a massacre. Everywhere he looked, there were dead bodies and not all of them were human. In fact, besides the twisted canine corpses lying around, some of the bodies had large fangs and glowing eyes, reminding him very much of people in the throes of beasthood. 

That notion made him uncomfortable. Just where was he? Had he been swept to some faraway snowy corner, miles away from Yharnam? It didn’t seem unlikely. As he looked outside, he saw nothing but an endless white landscape. Additionally, eh wondered, what if those beast-men that remained returned here?

Determined not to meet the fate as the people here, that thought spurred him into action. Now warm, fed and armed, he started to search the ruins for any supplies that might be of use to him. With proper supplies, he could perhaps venture a trek out into this rough landscape, to try and find a place that would be much safer. If there was any civilization in this remote place at all…

Yet, as the scavenged through this husk of a building, the things that he found gave him pause. The items that he found, such as amulets and partially burned books, spoke of strange things. Of a group called the Vigilants who had apparently resided her. Of a world he knew nothing about and gods he’d never heard about. The books spoke about nine of them, so-called Divines whom he had never heard of, yet there was only one that truly captured his attention.

His world stood still as his eyes were drawn to a ruined picture. Despite the stylized art, he recognized the old man he’d met in the darkness. Again, there was the same silver horn in his hand and behind him, there was a halo of sorts. Yet what truly struck him were the words he read at the bottom of the page.

Stendarr. The Divine of Might and Merciful Forbearance. 

Gehrman swallowed. So it was indeed a god who had taken him out of the void. A God of Mercy of all things. That thought almost made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. After all this time, an obscure deity had somehow deemed it feasible to hear his prayers now?

He found himself looking back at the shrine. Had Stendarr brought him here? And if so, for what reason? After all, this place had been destroyed a while ago. What point was there being here, in a place so devoid of life? How was that mercy? Unless…

Perhaps, the fact that this place was in ruins was the very reason he was here. By now, he got the feeling that this place had been dedicated to Stendarr and might have played an important part in his worship. It had been desecrated and that might be the reason why the deity had sought him out.

After all, he hadn’t always been a Hunter or even a toymaker. Before he went off to his apprenticeship, he’d grown up in the poorer part of Hamburg, as the middle child in a family with three sons. He was the son of a mason father with a taste for carpentry and a mother who flouted tradition by becoming a roofer instead of a housewife. It were his older and younger brother who went into those professions, but he had equally inherited their interest in building things. The skills they’d taught him proved vital in building the Hunter’s Workshop, at least as much as his knowledge of intricate mechanisms helped him fashion its weapons.

Suddenly, he smiled. That had to be why Stendarr had brought him here. Why he had chosen to pull him from the darkness… Still, where it would have made him bitter in the past, now he only felt at peace. Whatever the motives of this compassionate god, he had saved him from oblivion, from a lonely and unfulfilling death. The least he could do was return the favor. He nodded to the altar. 

“Fear not, Stendarr. I will rebuild this holy place of yours. In fact, I will make it more beautiful than it has ever been…” 

That night, the First Hunter didn’t leave the lodge as he originally intended. Instead, he ate his meager meal and looked around the barren place, already forming the beginnings of his restoration plans. Then, he started pulling at the rubble and brush away the ashes to free the way to what he assumed was a basement. He was pleased to find that it was mostly intact, the structure holding just fine, and after he found a bedroll there, he built a small fire to keep warm and retired for the night. 

The very next day, he started on the project that he decided would be the work of a lifetime. The first thing he did was clearing and burning the corpse, performing the proper rites at the buried the ashes. Then, he started with clearing all off the rubble and burned objects. 

This process took him several times, but he was soon left with a clear carcass of the original lodge. This allowed him to start on the floors. They had seemed to survive the onslaught relatively well, though he opted to replace the wood with stone instead. He found a small quarry nearby and it was here he mined the replacement material with the pickaxe, having laid a beautiful new foundation without a week or two of dedicated work.

He then got to work on the walls, making them of the same sturdy material. He simply traced the lines of the old building, tearing them down piece for piece and rebuilding him with a sturdy construction of his own making. The work was repetitive and boring, but Gehrman found he was rather at peace with it. After all he’d gone through, this was a welcome change.

Unlike in the Dream, he wasn’t bound here. When he wasn’t working on repairing the Hall, he could go wherever he pleased. He could hunt, he could take a walk and he could even enjoy an actual meal again after so long of never going hungry. In his quest to scavenge more supplies both for himself and the project, he explored the surrounding areas and found it wasn’t as abandoned as he had initially thought.

He wasn’t that impressed by the occasional band of bandits. They were hardly a match for his speed and skill. It was rather the apparent undead that roamed the crypt or the easily agitated giants and their mammoths that made him cautious. Still, it turned out that exploring their sites of residents was often a fruitful venture and left it with many coins, gems and useful weaponry or armor. Still, he much preferred the company of the living to the undead and the brutish. 

Near him was a fortress, which was occupied by several soldiers. They weren’t hostile to him and were content to trade or sell him items when he brought it up. When they asked him where he came from, he mentioned Yharnam, but they had simply frowned at him and asked him if he were one of those crazy “transcendent” people. 

Not knowing what that meant, Gehrman had instead changed the subject and told them about the Hall of the Vigilant. It was from them that he learned it had been attacked by vampires, the actual ones from his childhood books apparently, and they spoke admiringly of his decision to rebuild it. They doubted there were any Vigilants of Stendarr left to appreciate his efforts but they nonetheless wished him luck and told him he was always welcome to come by to either trade or simply enjoy a drink.

It was through this garrison that he also learned about the town of Dawnstar up north. He had followed the road to find it and the sight of an actual settlement filled with normal people was easily one of the best things he had seen in his lifetime. It had quickly become a fixture of his, simply to enjoy the company of other people at the inn or to find the materials the fortress couldn’t provide him. After a while, he’d befriended a few of the people enough that they sometimes came by to help him on their day off, making his work go infinitely faster. 

Some helped him with the walls, others took over a commission of the rooftop tiles. A local carpenter helped him fashion furniture to replace those that had been burned. The local blacksmith was happy to make him all the nails, hinges, locks and iron fittings he needed against a reasonable commission of money, materials and interesting weapons he’d found. 

A month or two into the project of rebuilding the Hall of the Vigilant, the First Hunter found himself oddly content with his new life. As cold and odd as this new place was, it felt good to be alive again. To be able to go somewhere and leave whenever he wanted. To actually socialize with other people. He even enjoyed being able to create once more, instead of simply destroying something. 

Oh, he enjoyed the art of creating. When he was not working on the Hall, he would retreat into the basement and work on all sorts of things. He built small moving toys like he’d done in his first youth. Drew maps of the surrounding areas. He took up a pursued in alchemy when the apothecary in Dawnstar gifted him with a station. He even managed to get his hands on a scythe and rebuild something akin to his old Burial Blade.

Still, despite all the additional pursuits, the Hall of the Vigilants remained his priority and within another few months, the final roof tile was laid and the hinges closed a strong door of pinewood shut. Where there once stood a shell of a building, ravaged by a sudden attack, there now stood a strong, new Hall, a testament to his tenacity and desire to start anew.

Gehrman felt he wasn’t bragging when he stated it was a masterpiece. The building was a true marvel, beautiful and distinct from the outside yet dignified on the inside. It was a bastion of comfort and reverence, a place to craft, rest and to worship. Nothing ever hinted to the fact that this place was ever destroyed and on an altar at the end of the room, the shrine to Stendarr stood proudly once more. 

Once he was done, both the villagers and nearby garrison came to pay their respects. They were quick to admire the handiwork they helped contribute with and congratulated him on all his effort. The celebration of its reconstruction was a quiet, but pleasant occasion and as evening fell and everyone left, the First Hunter happily laid himself to rest in the proper bedroom he’d built, knowing his duty to the God of Mercy was fulfilled. 

It was only mere hours later, however, when a loud noise outside stirred him from his slumber. He immediately sat up, then rapidly slipped into his clothes, lit a torch and grabbed his scythe. His Hunter’s instinct told him that something was amiss and he knew it would be foolish not to check it out. 

Bracing himself for what he might find, he opened the door and went inside. He stopped in his tracks, instantly met with a large group of people. People who had apparently just tried to ram the door, yet unable to break through the hard, fortified wood, courtesy of his crafting skills.

He would have wondered who they were, were it not for the fact that their eyes glowed orange in the light of his torch. One of them drew his lips back and he was instantly met with elongated fangs. It told him all he needed to know.

Vampires. 

He clutched his scythe tightly, not moving a muscle as he stared them down. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

The vampires looked at each other, practically grinning their unnatural teeth bare. When they turned back to him, he didn’t miss the predatory glance in their eyes. To them, he was not even remotely a threat. He was simply food, a sacrificial animal for them to slaughter. When their leader spoke, the arrogance was palpable. 

“We heard the hall of our enemies was rebuilt. It looks like the rumors are true. Are you the fool who did so?”

The look Gehrman sent them was as cold as ice. “Perhaps. Are you the fools that intend to tear it down again?”

His flippant answer clearly didn’t please the vampires. The hints of an inhuman growl came past their lips. The sound eerily reminded him of his time in the dark streets of Yharnam and he knew things were quickly turning ugly.

“We don’t intend to. We _will_ tear it down again and this time, not leave a stone standing. It will burn in memory of the late Lord Harkon, as long as us Volkihar still inhabit this world.”

That name made him look up in recognition. “Volkihar”. Vampire Lords, according to the stories he’d heard in the inn of Dawnstar. Monsters even among their own kind. He shivered. Was that what he had on his doorstep right now?

The leading vampire seemed to sense his discomfort and smiled maliciously. “Are you thoughtless enough to die for this heap of stone, dedicated to a worthless god and people? I wouldn’t recommend it. We know you’re alone and we killed people far stronger and more numerous than you.”

He meant every word of it, but the First Hunter didn’t respond. Nor did he move. He simply looked back at the vampire, a look of utter contempt on his face. Even if these creatures were dangerous, he was not the kind of man to cave under threats. Especially not if they came from monsters.

His silent answer clearly spoke volumes to the vampires. Instantly, he could see how the face of their leader twisted in the torchlight. Then, within the blink of an eye, he moved. He sped towards the mortal man, a deep hiss leaving his throat, depending to rip him apart in one fell stroke. 

Then, there was the sound of flesh and bone severing. The vampire stood but an inch removed of him, nailed to the ground, a look of shock then raw fury on its face. It only lasted for a brief second, as the head then tumbled off the shoulders and landed on the snow with a loud thud. The body followed after, the clanking of armor ringing across the night air, and soon, the white ground was turning red. 

Gehrman calmly shook the blood of his scythe, then locked eyes with the rest of the group. The other vampires stood motionless. The seconds ticked by as it slowly got through to them what just happened. Surprise turned to realization and realization turned to rage and it was there that the First Hunter knew that any chance of negotiation was over.

He chuckled under his breath. That was quite alright with him. Where he came from, a Hunter didn’t negotiate with his prey…

He bared his teeth, his grin as feral as the vampires’. “You may have killed before, but I killed creatures twice your size and thrice your intelligence! You wish to burn down my Hall? You have to go through me first. Good luck with that!”

It was the only invitation his enemies needed. An eldritch screech scattered the nightly silence and suddenly, a barrage of arcane fire and lightning raining down upon him. He moved, swifter than ever due to renewed youth, and threw himself into battle to protect what he had built.

He caught the first vampire at the flank and proceeded to slash at its side. It cried out, spinning around to unleash another destructive spell. It never got the chance, as Gehrman swiftly took off its hands, then impaled it through the heart. 

Two others took this opportunity to jump him from behind. He rapidly turned to block their weapons with his own, then used his strength to push them back. He then pulled one of them close with his scythe, before slicing the creature’s throat without hesitation. He then leaped at the other one and buried the blade into the skull, ignoring the grey matter spilling out as he wrenched it loose again.

He howled as a blast of ice caught him in the back, followed by the horrific sensation of his life force being drained. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the removed the blade of his scythe, spun around and used the newly formed sword to stab the culprit through the chest. He then ducked under another arcane blast, grunting as a sword sliced at his cheek, only to respond by burying his own blade in his enemy’s side.

His adversaries paid him back in kind. For the next few hours, Gehrman battles grasping claw-like hands, fire and lightning, steel and blood as well as necromancy straight out of his nightmares. He fought and he bled and he sweated as he charged at them, taking blows and giving back, warring to save the semblance of a new life he had built in this foreign world. Yet never once did he feel fear. If anything, all he truly felt was exciting.

It had been so long since he truly fought for something meaningful. Something that mattered to him. After countless decades of living in limbo, he had forgotten what it felt like to live without apathy, to live with conviction. Yet here he was, dead and reborn in a place he sometimes barely understood, and he felt it. Here, in this place far from home, he felt _alive_ once more.

So he fought. On and on, with every vampire coming at him. No matter how many times they managed to hit him with their weapons, spells or life drain, he never backed down. He tore through them with practiced ease, with a strength age had once taken from him, their dying screams slowly filling the night. When their corpses were resurrected by desperate brethren, he simply killed them once more, over and over until their numbers started to diminish. 

By the time the first rays of sunlight appeared over the skies, the area around the Hall was littered with corpses and ash. The smell of blood was heavy in the air and it painted nearly every inch of the ground before the building. Amongst it all stood a lone Hunter, panting heavily but still alive, defiantly holding his ground as the last remaining vampire was left to face him on its own.

There was nothing left of the unnatural smugness she and her kind had displayed before. Instead, those orange eyes were now wide with fear. Her brethren, considering themselves so much above mortals, had just been slain by a single mortal man. One who refused to go down and was now coming for her.

Suddenly, she whipped around and ran, but Gehrman didn’t give her the chance to go far. He flung himself at her, slamming her fleeing body right into the snow. She screamed, apparently actually praying to Stendarr in that very moment, but it was already too late. A swift blow of a scythe to the back of her head split her skull apart and just like that, the world around them grew quiet once more.

The First Hunter used his weapon to pull himself up, finally allowing himself to feel tired. He took a moment to catch his breath, shaking the blood off his blade before he looked over the woman’s remains. He cast a final look at the corpse, his words calm and composed. 

“The night ends for us all. For you, it ends early.” 

With those words, he then dragged himself back to the Hall of the Vigilant, occasionally kicking a corpse to the side before he made his way back in and went to the basement. He sauntered over to his alchemy station, grabbing both a potion for healing and for curing diseases. The alchemist in Dawnstar had taught him the recipes and after being hit with that horrifying lifedraining so many times, he wasn’t going to take the risk of infection. 

He sank down on a nearby bench, allowing his now sore muscles to rest for a moment and wait for the effects of the potion to kick in. He closed his eyes, so tired he felt he could actually take a nap then and there. He would have, had he not heard the door upstairs open again, followed by several shocked voices.

“Corpses… There was another attack? … The Hall! The rumors were true! Everything is still in one piece… They never even made it inside!”

Immediately, Gehrman grabbed his scythe once more as he marched up the stairs again, ready to meet a new potential threat. Yet the moment he made it there, he stopped in his tracks. Before him was a handful of men and women, staring at him with a mixture of surprise and apprehension.

He had but to look at their robes and the silver amulets on their necks to know who they were. Almost instantly, his face lit up with an amazed smile. Clearly, the rumors weren’t true, after all. He put away his weapon and greeted them with a small bow.

“Welcome, Vigilants of Stendarr, to the Hall that is rightfully yours. Though I fear it may not look quite like how you remember it.”

A soft laugh was heard from them, almost as if they found his apologies ridiculous. “Are you the one who rebuilt it then?”

He nodded, feeling almost shy, and one of them stepped forward, placing a hand over his heart. “You… We owe you an impossible debt. What is your name? What inspired you to do such a deed?”

It was there Gehrman hesitated for a moment. After all, how wise it to tell his true motivations for what he had done? How seriously would they take a claim of coming here from another world and feeling their god himself called him to do this? As such, he decided to keep his answer deliberately vague.

“You may call me Gehrman. Let’s just say I was swept here by fate.”

Still, hardly had he said those words or the atmosphere of the room changed once more. Suddenly, happy faces turned into complete astonishment, causing a silence that would make the drop of a pin sound deafening. It almost made him nervous. Had he said something wrong after all?

Finally, one of them spoke up. “Wait. You are Gehrman? Gehrman Maurer? The one some know as the “First Hunter”?”

Now, it was the First Hunter’s turn to be baffled. He couldn’t even remember the last time he actually held his own surname. Still, how could these people know that? How did they even know that he was once called the First Hunter? He stared at them, mouth agape, his reaction already confirming their question.

The Vigilant continued. “There has been a missive released here in Skyrim. Coming from Solitude, by Thane Solaire Chevalier. It seems several people are looking for you, wishing to know if you are alive and well. A few of these people gave their names as Ludwig Wolfgang, Laurence Ashcroft and Maria of Cainhurst. Unusual names to say the least…”

It was there that any remaining semblance of coherent thought left Gehrman’s mind. Ludwig? Laurence? Maria? They were actually here? In this same world, just as him? Not only that, they were looking for him? Even now, they still cared enough about him to try and find them, even if had likely been impossible.

He was shocked as he read the letter handed to him and he practically felt tears welling up in his eyes, but he didn’t bother to suppress them. Why should he? This was the happiest he’d ever felt, even more as when he saw that lantern with the flaming little heart flickering in the darkness. That thought made him laugh through his weeping. 

Even now, Stendarr was not done being merciful to him.

It was a few days later that he stood before the gates of Solitude. He was wearing the robes of a Vigilant, the silver amulet around his neck. He’d been desperate to be sworn into their ranks before he’d visit the city. Not simply because he decided he quite enjoyed another lifetime of hunting monsters, but because he wanted to show to everyone how much he had changed. 

In his previous life, he’d been bitter and pushed everyone away the bleaker his situation got. He didn’t doubt that some grudges would still be present for that, but it didn’t matter to him. The fact that they looked for him meant there was still that sliver for concern and if Stendarr remained merciful, perhaps old wounds could still be mended.

He’d tell Laurence and Ludwig he no longer resented them for their choices. He’d confess to Maria all the wrongs he’d done her and her memory and beg for forgiveness. He’d tell Simon that he was right to doubt, Henriett that her tenacity had merit and Micolash, Rom and Yurie that he should have done more to look out for them… It was time to face his sins and he was determined to do so graciously.

It was Solaire who opened the door when he knocked and he invited him in with great respect. Almost immediately, he found himself in a room full of familiar faces, all staring at him with both disbelief and anticipation. In a brief moment of doubt, he wondered if they perhaps didn’t recognize him now that he looked younger and no longer missed a leg. 

Then, however, Ludwig stepped forward and threw his arms around him. Laurence soon followed and then Rom and Micolash were upon him as well, then Yurie and Henriett. Maria simply nodded at him as she remained as Solaire’s side, as if she already knew of his past thoughts about her. Still, she acknowledged him, a hint of fondness in her eyes, and he nodded back. He would not blame her if she didn’t forgive him and could only hope that someday, they could recover something of the warm bond they had as mentor and student.

That thought was only on his mind very briefly. Soon, he was overwhelmed by the experience of seeing his old comrades once more. To see them alive, sane, in the exact same place as him. Happy to have found him. Happy to see him…

He didn’t hold back his emotions. He’d been quite happy for the last few months, but it was here, amidst old friends, that he finally dared to think of this new place as home. As a new start, exactly as it had been intended, beside the people he had loved so dearly in his previous life. He was a Vigilant of Stendarr now, but the bond between comrades formed in Yharnam would never be forgotten.

He smiled to himself. “Today, Gehrman joins the Hunt once more…”


	18. Fist of Talos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gratia embraces her destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never once thought that a character so relatively obscure as Simple Gratia would end up with the longest, most influential chapter of this series. Still, this was simply the story that popped into my head when I envisioned her chapter, so I went for it. I hope you like it and find it a worthy finish to my second-longest Soulsborne/Skyrim crossover (the Dark Souls one will get there, trust me). Enjoy.

All her life, Gratia had been told she wouldn’t amount to anything. 

Born in a world where development and culture was everything, she had always felt left behind. She was always too big, too coarse, too rough. At home, she had never been the lady her mother had hoped her to be and when she moved to Yharnam, she had never become the Hunter everyone else was.

Simple Gratia, they called her. The tall, awkward and muscular Hunter who couldn’t even properly handle a firearm. Many had told her to give up and were both surprised and amused when she answered her calling as a Hunter anyway. With some crudely fashioned brass knuckles instead of a gun as well as a large beast cutter, she braved the beasts, using strength where she lacked speed. 

They laughed at her, they all did, yet she always refused to let it get to her. She might be tall and awkward, but she was also stubborn. When she made up her mind, she stuck to it and damn anyone who thought she couldn’t do it. As far as she was concerned, she was not stupid. She was simply born during the wrong time period and even then, she would have her moment to shine.

That moment, she knew, was now. Right here, at the gates of Solitude, she would make her stand. A futile one, sure enough, one she likely wouldn’t survive. It mattered not to her. After all, as someone once told her, people didn’t need to be grand or special to make history. Sometimes, all you needed was a good story…and the story she was going to write here would be one of the finest in Skyrim.

It was that tenacity that brought her here as well. That took her out of the Nightmare that was the share of all of her kind. In fact, it was there in that cell, undergoing her greatest tribulation, that she found out who she really was.

Even trapped in the Hunter’s Nightmare, she refused to be reduced to tears. Locked away in a barren cell, she was simply on her knees, praying, looking the looming threat of death straight in the eye. Even if she had been locked in here for an eternity, she refused to give into despair. She was not going to go out like Yamamura, madly chanting, or die with cries of agony. All her life, she had hardened herself against the cruel opinions of others and she’d be damned if she was going to die sobbing.

She simply prayed, even when starvation and dehydration wrecked her body. Even when she felt herself wasting away. She calmly beseeched and praised the Great Ones, sometimes mockingly so. After all, what had these eldritch masters of the cosmos ever brought her? 

If she had to believe Simon, their curse was the reason she was in there. And if they had actually made her like others claimed, they had done a botched job of it. If she was going to die in this hell, then she might as well let them know just what she thought of them. 

“It takes either foolishness or bravery to mock the Gods, Gratia. Or perhaps, someone with nothing left to lose.”

A voice stirred her from her feigned entreaty. She looked up, startled as she spied a shadow in her cell. Instantly, she reached for her brass knuckles and rose to her feet, ready to meet the intruder.

She found herself looking at a man and what a man he was as well. He was of average height but well-built, hardened in the way only a regular fighter could be. Piercing blue eyes stared directly into her grey ones and a winning smile highlighted a lined and weathered face framed by hair white as snow. Yet that wasn’t the thing that truly drew her eye. It was rather the fact he wore actual armor, complete with mail and a helmet, the likes of it she had never seen before. 

She regarded him coolly, fingers clutched tight around her weapon. “How did you get in here? And who are you then, to judge my opinion of divinity?”

A laugh was her answer. “Oh, I go by many names. I was born Hjalti Early-Beard. When I came to my father’s lands, I became Ysmir. Then when I became a general I was Talos Stormcrown. When I became an Emperor, I was Tiber Septim and when I became a God, I became simply Talos once more.”

It was clear he intended to give no answer on how he got here and she simply glared at him. She then glanced at the door, before rushing over and pushing against it. It didn’t budge and she could feel a sense of discomfort come over her. She turned back to him, looking him over. 

“A human who became a god? How much blood did you imbibe? And have you been sent here to punish me for my wicked ways then?”

Talos chuckled and shook his head. “I became a God by deeds, not by blood. And no, I am not here to punish you. If anything, you fascinate me.”

Gratia took a step back on instinct. “How so? I am but an average Hunter who got herself trapped here in a Nightmare. I can’t be all that interesting to you.”

He grinned. “I disagree. You are quite the remarkable woman, with great tenacity and courage. Someone who looks at other’s low expectations of hers and laughs. Who sits in a cell, facing her death, and doesn’t even flinch. That is a person who could change the world, if she is at the right place at the right time.”

She responded by rolling her eyes. “Changing the world is for politicians and warlords. I am but a simple Huntress and not interested in such things.”

This man…god didn’t seem to agree. “Not all people change the world by moving mountains, at least not by themselves. For a few, all it takes is an act that inspires. When I was an Emperor, I didn’t always go and conquer. Sometimes, I did as little as talk to the right person or build a tower over a border. What matters, however, is you. Every action is a story and how you define it will make someone listen or turn away. Sometimes, all you need is a good story and people will take it from there.”

The Huntress quietly listened to him. He was a good speaker, she had to give him that. Charismatic enough that she readily believed many people who actually follow him. Still, her years as a subject of derision had made her particularly distrusting to anyone who promised a quick cure to all her problems. She knew better than to be taken in by some pretty words.

“That is very inspired, Emperor-God, but useless to me. I’ve had my chance and now, I’m trapped here until death comes for me. How can I possibly change the world?”

Again, he let out a mysterious laugh. “Then pray to me, Gratia, and you will know. Pray to Talos, the Divine of Warriors and Heroes, and you will see.”

Then, as she blinked at that statement, he was gone again. The cell was cold and empty once more and she started to wonder if he’d really been there at all. Perhaps it was all a dying hallucination, the hunger and thirst finally getting to her. Not that it mattered. She was still going to die.

She sank to her knees once more and resumed her prayers. Yet after a while, as her dry throat became raspy and her growling stomach drowned everything out, the words of the man came back to her and she actually felt bad enough to heed his bizarre advice. She might as well. What was the harm in it when her soul was already damned? So she prayed, skeptically, to Talos, asking him to save her if he was so inclined though she doubted it.

She wanted to say more, but she didn’t get any further. Suddenly, she could feel how her soul was practically ripped from her body. She didn’t get to scream, as her senses took leave of her and her conscious was drawn from the cell, from all the layers of the Nightmare, from the world and the cosmos to the white spaces of inexistence beyond… The sensation of infinity was too much and it was there she lost all consciousness. 

When she did, the first thing she felt was a strange mix of heat and cold. She stirred, scrambling to the feet she realized she had once more. Her eyes moved left and right, only for them to widen. Wherever she was, this was not the Hunter’s Nightmare.

This place was alive, with the sun shining down on her and the smells of nature coming at her from all sides. Behind her, she could hear the murmur of a lake and she heard the rustling of plans and shrubs in the distance. Yet the things she noticed most of all was the stone base she sat down, as well as the large shadow looming over her.

She looked up, gasping softly. Standing before her was a shrine and a statue. The figure was unknown to her, until she glanced at the armor he was wearing. Her mouth fell open, her heart ceasing to beat for a brief second. This man depicted was the being she knew as Talos… She froze. Had he actually answered her prayer?

She would have been stunned and amazed at that, were it not for a more pressing matter. Only now did she sense she was completely unclothed and a sense of embarrassment came over her. She looked around, already thinking about using leaves to cover herself, only to spy a chest a few feet away from her. She ran over and opened it, before letting out a sigh of relief. 

Inside it was light armor, boots, coins and gems and even some weaponry. Even some smoked fish, which she happily ate then washed down with water from the lake. She wondered if it was perhaps someone’s stash or supplies left for travelers. Either way, she gladly took them, even if the clothes were ill-fitting at best on her tall stature. She closed the chest again, then followed the path up the nearby hill, meanwhile wondering just where she was and what she would do next. 

“Halt! You’re under arrest for worship of Talos!” 

Gratia stopped, looking up to see the oddest creatures she’d ever laid eyes on. They looked human, at least roughly, but their features seemed elongated and their golden skin unnatural, with strange pointed ears. What more, what they just said made no sense to her.

“I beg your pardon?”

The one who seemed like their leader glared. “Don’t feign innocence! You’re clearly walking away from a shrine to Talos. What else could you be doing there besides worship of a false god forbidden by the White-Gold Concordat?”

His voice oozed self-righteous arrogance as he stated the accusation, but Gratia was just at a loss. So worship of this Talos fellow was outlawed here… She sure would’ve liked it if her fever dream had told her of that beforehand. Still, seeing how she wasn’t exactly loyal to him even her prayer brought her here, she shrugged.

“Look, I’m not from here. I’m tired, lost and all I know of this Talos is that he’s some kind of obscure Emperor-God. And I have no idea what the White-Gold Concordat is either. I don’t want trouble, so could you just tell me where I am and how to get to the nearest town or village if there is one?”

Her casual reply, however, didn’t seem to placate them. “You have a lot of nerve talking to the Thalmor this way! Never mind! Surely being a guest at our Embassy will teach you some manners! Seize her!”

Immediately, two of them charged in her direction. Now realizing that what she said was clearly perceived as a hostile action, she cursed under her breath. She had only been in this place for mere moments and she already got in trouble… Still, that didn’t mean she was going to come quietly.

The steel plated gauntlets she had picked up at the shrine proved a lifesaver. Without thinking, she knocked out the lights of the first one that came close. The second one responded by swinging a sword, which she simply caught in her protected hands, then proceeded to headbutt him hard enough to render him unconscious as well. She then turned towards their leader, who looked hilariously shocked at this development, her hand moving to her mace to deal with him as well as he stood trembling. 

She would have succeeded, were it not for a pair of arms locking around her and pinning them against her sides. She responded by using her feet to break free, only to be lifted right off the ground. She thrashed as hard as she could, squirming against the grip of the one restraining her, meanwhile glaring at the leader as he composed himself and dusted off.

“You took awfully long to get involved, Legate!” 

Still trying to break loose, Gratia looked up and stilled. The human male restraining her was even taller than she was. Seven, even eight feet perhaps and had her feet been on the ground, she would have reached his chest at most. His golden-colored armor was elaborate, the helmet shaped like the head of a lion. The glimpse she got of his face revealed him to be in either his late thirties or early forties, with unruly red hair and a beard as well as piercing green eyes. He grinned at the golden creature, his voice betraying a hint of mockery. 

“I figured it was not necessary. After all, you Altmer are such a talented race. Surely you could take on just one woman.”

The look he was shot could have made pigeons fall dead off the roofs. “It would be most wise to keep such observations to yourself, Ornstein. Especially since the Empire has a lot to make up for after the cowardly slaughter of our agents at Gjukar’s Monument. Restrain her, while I tend to my fallen comrades.”

With those words, he briskly turned away in order or revive his friends. Meanwhile, Gratia felt how she was put back onto the ground. She responded by trying to struggle again, but the man held her tighter. Once he was sure the creature, an Altmer apparently, wasn’t paying attention, he bent down to her and whispered. 

“Do not fight. I will make certain they will not bring you to the Embassy. Just stay calm and keep your mouth shut.”

The Huntress wasn’t quite sure why, but for some reason, she felt that cooperating was indeed her best bet. Trying her best to hold down her anger, she allowed the man, Ornstein she believed, to tie her hands and take her mace. When he urged her to walk, she did and as soon as the other two Altmer recovered, she was led away from the shrine, to an unknown destination. 

It was only when evening fell that she was allowed rest. Far too late for her, as she was already fatigued when she was tossed into this world. The Altmer, or Thalmor as they called themselves, had tried to beat her when she fell to the ground, unable to walk. Ornstein, however, had made them back off with a few choice words and simply picked her up, carrying her without complaint until they set up camp.

As they sat there around a campfire, the Altmer mostly talking amongst themselves. The human male, however, moved close to her, one eye on his companions to ensure they weren’t paying attention. Gratia immediately responded by moving a couple of inches away. Even though Ornstein had treated her with some care, she still wasn’t sure at what price. Still, she quietly accepted the meat and wine he offered her and after a few tense moments, he leaned in closer and spoke in a hushed tone.

“Boletaria? Lordran? Drangleic? Lothric? Yharnam?”

The other names meant nothing to her, but the mention of her hometown caused her world to stand still for a moment and she stared at him in shock, before whispering back. “Yharnam. How did you know?”

He smiled. “I’m not from here either. I figured you were not when you seemed dumbfounded at the Thalmor’s questions. You and I are not the first to pass through this world and we will likely not be the last.”

She felt a cold chill at those words. So she was indeed very far from home… In a completely different existence, one where she would never see Yharnam again. That thought had her go silent for a moment. Here she was, in possibly another dimension and arrested for a crime she didn’t commit. The only cold comfort she had right now was that she was at least talking to someone who understood.

“What do these Thalmor…Altmer, whatever they are… What do they want of me?”

He shrugged. “A confession. These Elves invaded the Empire of Tamriel and when we negotiated peace, one of the terms was outlawing worship of human Hero-God Talos. Now these people stamp it out wherever they find, either by torture or death. Fanatically so since the Stormcloaks insist on worshipping in public, even after we killed their leader. So now we have both remnants of a civil war and this to deal with.” 

Something about his casual response stirred anger in her. She was never particularly religious, but if there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it were tyrants who forced their beliefs on others on threat of death. She had seen so much death and agony in Yharnam. What kind of monster could be so casual in the face of that?

“So you actually work with these monsters who kill people and force them to forsake their Gods? That’s disgusting. How can you go home and face your loved ones knowing you kill your fellow men?”

Then and there, as she nearly got loud enough for the Thalmor to hear, Ornstein turned her and his green eyes seemed alight with searing lightning. His look was so furious, so destructive that it made her shrink away on the spot. When he answered, his voice was calm, but also bore an mistakable trace of anger. 

“I work with them because I have to, not because I want to. Because the Empire cannot fight back while it’s still weak. And do not dare to make assumptions about my loved ones. I have a daughter. Sofie. She is not my own, but I love her more than anything in this world. She was the orphaned child of a Stormcloak who fought in this Civil War and never came home. Do you think that gives me joy? Do you think I never agonize over the possibility that I may have killed her father?”

Those words, spoken in complete earnest, was what made her inch back. Instantly, a sense of shame washed over her and she mentally smacked herself for speaking before thinking. Of course he didn’t like being in a war; she should know that from her time in Yharnam. No normal living being did… When she found her tongue again, she showed some appropriate humility and contrition. 

“I’m sorry.”

The Legate didn’t respond to that. “We will reach Dragon Bridge in a few days. I will persuade the Penitus Oculatus to take you into custody as a special case. They will not find any evidence of Talos worship and set you free in a few days. After that, you are on your own. Do you understand?” 

All she could do at that was nod. Seeing her situation, and how callous she’d been, this sounded like the best possible deal she could get. She muttered a sincere word of thanks, just to let him know she did appreciate the effort he made for her. He opened his mouth, just about to say something else, when suddenly, there was a loud noise nearby. It caused them both to jump, as well as the Altmer, and suddenly, she felt her heart pound in her throat.

Ornstein put a hand on her shoulder and told her to stay put, picking up a large spear and standing up. She watched him disappear into the darkness and alone with the hated Thalmor, she simply remained quiet and waited. Whatever was out there, in her state she could only hope that the Legate killed it quickly. 

Then, just as that thought went through her head, screams erupted from the forest. On all sides, people in armor jumped from the shadows with their weapons drawn. They were on the Altmer before they even got a chance to draw their swords and Gratia could only watch in horror how they were cut down like bound animals trapped in a slaughterhouse. 

Without thinking, she forwent the earlier advice to stay put, got to her feet and ran, determined to somehow stay alive throughout this ambush. As she flung herself into the darkness of the forest, she could only wonder what happened to Ornstein. These people, whoever they were, clearly had it out for them. Had they gotten to him and already killed him as well?

She wasn’t sure and she didn’t get to think about it long. Suddenly, someone grabbed her by the arms. She screamed, trying to pull loose, only for a hand to reach up and clamp over her mouth. She looked down, to find a strange man looking at her from behind his helmet.

“Be still! We’re here to help you!”

Before she could say anything in return, her bonds were cut and the man dragged her away from the attack. She followed, if only because he seemed to have her safety in mind. They ran, for what seemed like hours, until they could run no more and she finally saw the flames of another camp.

It was only there that the man let go of her and she practically fell to her knees, gasping for breath. She didn’t even care when she saw a whole group of men watching her, with both curiosity and distrust, nor that several others emerged from the shadows, blood smeared all over their clothes and weapons. She simply tried her best to compose herself, meanwhile trying to assess what had just happened.

“They had a prisoner, Avulstein?” 

The man nodded. “They did. A Talos worshipper, probably, or at least a perceived one. I decided to bring her here as Legate Lion might still be looking for her.”

“So he survived? Shor’s Beard, that’s bad news.”

Gratia fought her very hardest not to show some small measure of relief at that. So Ornstein lived… That was good. Very good. It didn’t matter if they had parted on a bad note or even that he worked for those rotten Thalmor. He’d done his best to keep her safe and unmolested. For that alone, she didn’t want to see him condemned to a horrible death.

Still, she kept silent as the group conversed, keeping her head low as she listened to them. “So who is she? Quite the big girl, isn’t she?”

“She hasn’t said. Still seemed too shaken up. Talos knows what that rotten Imperial and those Thalmor have done to her.”

“Well, let’s ask her then, shall we? That is the quickest way to find out.”

A man, dressed in more elaborate armor which likely made him a commander, stepped forward and crouched down before her. “You. What is your name?”

There was a certain harshness in his tone and not sure of the situation, the Huntress sat up and answered immediately. “Gratia, commander.”

He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Gratia. I am Ysrarald Thrice-Pierced. Do you know who I am?”

She shook her head. “No, I am not from here. Judging from what little I gathered and you killing Thalmor, a Stormcloak perhaps?”

A chuckle left his throat. “Smart girl. I am the leader of the Stormcloaks, since Ulfric Stormcloak was slain by the Empire. So, Gratia, why did the Thalmor capture you?”

She shrugged her shoulders, the whole situation not entirely clear to her even now. “They thought I was a worshipper of Talos, whom I’ve learned is some controversial deity. In reality, I just woke up at the shrine not knowing how I got there. I suppose that wasn’t a satisfying answer to them.”

The man scoffed. “Of course it isn’t. The Thalmor are only interested in a confession. A reason to kill a human. After all, that is all they want. In order to attain godhood, all humans must be wiped from existence.”

Those words brought a cold chill to her being. From what she gathered from Ornstein, these Altmer were bad. Yet if what this man said was true, they were far worse than what she could even imagine. The idea that these…creatures hated mankind enough to commit genocide, and would have probably enjoyed bestowing a painful death on her for merely being one, was enough to make her stomach turn.

“That…that is horrible.”

Ysrarald nodded. “It is. That is why we Stormcloaks fight. We want Skyrim, our ancestral land, to be free of an Empire that gives such tyrants free reign. We want to save humanity, where the Empire would see fit to destroy it just to exist.”

Those words were spoken with so much conviction and such seriousness that Gratia couldn’t find it in her to doubt them. After all, some things were simply too terrible to make up. She shuddered to think that she was nearly in the hands of these people and, more importantly, that she had now likely made an enemy of them.

That thought hit her like an avalanche. She had been taken prisoner by those who had occupied this land and the party she’d been with was now mostly dead. No doubt she would be seen as a suspect in their demise if she ever showed her face again… she could feel bile rise in her throat at the thought alone, only to be interrupted by Ysrarald’s words.

“Perhaps you would like to join us, Gratia? Rise up with the rest of us, the Stormcloaks, who still cling to the dream Jarl Ulfric had for this land of Skyrim. Help us overthrow these Elven overlords, so humanity can live on the lands that were theirs since the dawn of time.”

Never had an answer to an offer come more easily than now. Not so much because of rousing words, as she was wary of those, but simple pragmatism went a long way. She was a wanted woman now, one who likely wouldn’t be safe anymore now. She was stranded here in a world she barely comprehended and her best chance of survival was to join other outlaws to find safety in numbers.

She looked at him and nodded. “Very well. I have nowhere to go. So I might as well join those who seek to destroy those who’d unfairly convicted me.”

He smiled, quietly but happily. “Then swear this oath with me, daughter of Skyrim and embrace our fight.”

The Stormcloak leader helped her rise, then motioned one of his soldiers to bring him a sword. He handed it to her and the rest of the warriors stood around them in a circle. He spoke the words of the oath to her and asked her to repeat after him.

“I do swear my blood and honor to the service of the late Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim. As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond, even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!”

She spoke without a moment’s hesitation, fierce and bold with the determination of someone desperate to survive. Her lack of doubt seemed to delight them, impassion them. So much so that when she had said all the words, they approached, putting their hands on her shoulder, embracing her as their sister.

“Welcome to the Stormcloaks.”

The next year was like a dream to Gratia and not the kind of twisted ones she used to suffer from back in Yharnam. This was a different world, alive and sane, and she reveled in the ability to walk on grass and breathe in fresh air once more. After being trapped in a cell, even the Spartan life of a hidden camp was paradise.

Yet, oddly enough, what she enjoyed even more was the actual life of a Stormcloak. All her life, she’d been awkward and out of place. Too big. Too clumsy. Too awkward. Too ill-suited to use advanced weaponry. Here, however, life was simple. The weapons were simply swords, maces, axes and hammers or a bow. Or even just her steel gauntlets, which she used the same way she once did her brass knuckles. There was no need for fancy footwork, just bravery and skill. Her size and strength were an asset, not a hindrance and it wasn’t long before she took to her role as a soldier like a duck to water.

What an exciting role it was too. Being an outpost of rebels, there was never a dull moment. When not fending off parties of Thalmor or Imperials searching for them or stealthily gathering supplies, they were making plans for battles or sabotage. She remembered her first raid on Fort Snowhawk fondly, adrenaline rushing through her veins as she dodged the spells of its mages only to give them a taste of her mace.

Attacking convoys was also always exciting. There was nothing as satisfying as taking the goods of a haughty captain or Thalmor agent, to soundly thrash those stupid enough not to flee or surrender. They always made sure to burn the cart as well, just to make a point to the Aldmeri Dominion that they were still alive.

Initially, she just tagged along, but as the months went on, Gratia started finding her own feet. During a solo scavenger hunt, she ran across three Thalmor agents with a prisoner. Initially, she thought of hiding and resuming her search, but her own memories spoke louder. So instead, she walked right up, provoked the Altmer and swiftly killed them, then freed the prisoner whom she then brought to the Stormcloak camp to join their cause.

This was the beginning of a new persona for her. Where previously, she had been shy and awkward, more of a follower than a leader, she now became an effective force all on her own. She started roaming around and planning attacks or smuggling missions. She taunted the Imperial Legions with traps and letters. At one point, she even managed to start a fire in the Thalmor Embassy, after placing a shrine to Talos on its highest roof. 

Her ferocity and boldness didn’t go unnoticed, both by friend and foe. Gratia Steel-Fist, they called her. The She-Bear of the Stormcloaks. In time, her name became known in all of Skyrim, so much so that princely rewards were issued for those who could kill or capture her. By then, that notion no longer alarmed her. If she was declared an enemy of the state, she would make sure she was an enemy well-remembered.

This exposure naturally earned her a strong rivalry as well. Ornstein, clearly still working with the Thalmor, had been specifically tasked with finding her. This led to several close calls and some fierce fights on the battlefield. Ones she sometimes suspected her might enjoy as much as she did. No doubt he was very disappointed in her choice to join the enemy, but she didn’t care. Her fate was sealed the moment the Empire allowed these cretins to arrest her for something she didn’t do.

Sometimes, as they met on the battlefield or played their games of cat and mouse, he’d try to reason with her. To tell her that she was pursuing a long dead dream that ended with Ulfric’s demise. That the Stormcloaks had no true love for those that were not that their own. He would tell her it was not too late to lay down her weapons and join those who did care about the long-term future of Skyrim. She would always laugh when he did and tell him she had no interest in sustaining a crumbling realm.

No, she held no sympathy for a weak, dying Empire who put its citizens in harm’s way. She could see how the Aldmeri Dominion slowly tried to worm its way into Skyrim. She didn’t care if others thought lying down and taking it was easier. She wasn’t going to stand for it and wouldn’t stop until both forces were gone from her new home, even if she had to die in the attempt.

That last notion was more than alright with her. During her time in Skyrim, she had become well familiar with the gods of this land, as well as its afterlife. Sovngarde sounded like a paradise, a place where warriors would find a dignified rest. If that was where she went after death, then why should she be afraid?

It was that thought that kept the Huntress going, that made her ever more reckless. Her fearlessness became a weapon in and of itself. It drove her on and worked as a powerful motivator to shut out the doubt she sometimes started to feel.

It started when she first came to Windhelm, to receive briefing for a new mission. This was the first time she met the Dunmer, or Dark Elves, as well as the scaled Argonians. She noticed the slum that was the Gray Quarter and that the Argonians weren’t allowed to go into the city at all. When she asked her contact about this, he scoffed and told her that they were parasites leeching off the proud Nord city. He sneered at the attempts of new Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter to actually try and integrate these ingrates. His harsh words struck her and she had left to the market feeling uncomfortable, hoping some food and fresh air would clear her head.

When she met an Altmer woman there who had nothing but contempt for the Aldmeri Dominion and ran an underground human smuggling ring to get Talos worshippers to safety, her worldview received its first crack. This wasn’t helped when she accidentally ventured into a Dunmer tavern and heard from a Bosmer about the racial purges the Aldmeri Dominion had committed in his native Valenwood. When she bought some supplies of a Khajiit caravan, they too voiced their disgust for Thalmor. Suddenly, she couldn’t help but think that perhaps, few were a willing ally of the Dominion, even in their own domain. If anything, they had invaded their own homeland first. They only truly cared for other Altmer who shared their views and somehow, she felt she had heard that sentiment before… 

Initially, she tried to write off those mentalities as outliers, but the longer she was among Stormcloaks, the more she noticed it. Sometimes, people other than Nords tried to join them. Most of them were Elves or other races of Men, yet people who had lived and grown up in Skyrim and knew no other home. They always had to work twice as hard to be accepted and when they were, they rarely, if ever, were promoted to anything more than foot soldiers, regardless of skill or talent. 

The harshest was a young Altmer woman, who came to them with a baby. She claimed she had fled the Summerset Isles because they intended to kill the infant, as it didn’t meet the standards of the Aldmeri Dominion. She had made it here and now desperately wanted to join the Stormcloaks to keep her child safe. Ysrarald had told her that they fought for Nord interests, not those of Elves and they had no interest in having more of them in Skyrim. 

Eventually, the woman had left crying as she made her way to Morrowind and Gratia had been left disgusted. She had nothing against the other races, especially not if they just went about their own lives hurting no one. If anything, them wanting to protect Skyrim as well seemed like a good thing. The fact they equally hated the Aldmeri Dominion was something that should unite them. Yet instead, the Stormcloaks only seemed to accept them if they acknowledged the land should be of the Nords first and foremost.

It made her sick to her stomach. She hated the Aldmeri Dominion for their contempt of other races, for their intolerance of other cultures. Yet the Stormcloaks who claimed to fight them sounded very much the same. They wanted their own nation, where other races were either gone or second rate citizens. Who casually talked about killing Imperials, whether they were involved with the Empire or simply came from or descended from Cyrodiil. As a woman who was not a native to this land herself, was that what she wanted to fight for? 

For a long time, she tried to keep those thoughts at bay. After all, if she were to speak out openly, she might be seen as a traitor. She was marked for death by the Empire as well, leaving her between a rock and a hard place. She would be killed before she even got to the border of Skyrim. It was that thought that kept her quiet and in place. 

Until today.

She was having her mace repaired when one of her fellow warriors returned to the camp, running as if he were chased by angry Daedra. He looked both shocked and excited at the same time, jumping up and down as he demanded to speak to Ysrarald. When their leader appeared, the meesanger seemed to be crying and laughing at the same time. 

“They’re coming! They’re coming!”

Ysrarald put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. “Thorvald, calm down. What’s coming? Who is coming?”

Thorvald laughed. “The Aldmeri Dominion. At least a third of their army. They’re marching into Skyrim, to Solitude. They plan to lay siege to the city!”

Instantly, the entire camp was stirring and their commander had to order them to remain silent. “Why?”

“The Empire. Rumor has it the Thalmor realize the Empire might soon take the war to them and that Tullius might be up to something in Skyrim. So they sent an army to burn the city down. Tullius has called for reinforcements, but it’s likely too late. I doubt even the city’s greatest heroes can hold a force like this back!”

Ysrarald stared at him for a moment, pure shock on his face. Gratia could only agree there. Now that Ulfric was dead, the Aldmeri Dominion was everywhere and they were mostly in hiding. How would things progress now there was an entire army of them here in their home?

Then, out of nowhere, he started laughing. Not a laugh out of despair, as the Huntress might have hoped, but one of pure joy. The kind of joy that made her immensely uncomfortable.

“Oh, this is perfect! This is the best news I could have hoped for! Talos has answered our prayers! We must gather our forces, quickly! The Stormcloaks are not dead yet.”

The other Stormcloaks joined him in laughter, but Gratia couldn’t. Wouldn’t, more like. An unpleasant stinging sensation settled in her stomach and where she previously held her tongue, she couldn’t anymore. Instead, she decided to speak up.

“How is this a good thing? The Thalmor are now on our doorstep. We cannot hope to defeat an actual army!”

Immediately, everyone looked in her direction, but Ysrarald seemed too overjoyed to take offense. “Don’t you see? They’re not here for us, but for the capital. Solitude is a strong city, well adapted to sieges. It will fall eventually, but many High Elves will break themselves upon it first. By the time the battle is over, both the Imperials and Thalmor are weakened. That’s where we come in. If we gather all our forces, we can take them and we will have the capital of Skyrim right in the palm of our hands.”

The other Stormcloaks practically cheered, but the Huntress only felt her nausea increase. She thought of the people in Solitude. Of the normal civilians going about their lives. The soldiers forcefully conscripted. Ornstein and his little Stormcloak daughter Sofie. Suddenly, whatever idealistic thoughts she still had about her fellow warriors were now gone and her fear of rejection was no longer enough to keep her silent. She spoke up, letting her indignation be heard.

“So you will let an entire city either be burned to death or starve, all because it makes for a simple victory? Men, women and children, dead, so a Stormcloak flag can wave over Solitude? Instead of, I don’t know, helping the people who want the Dominion gone as badly as we do?”

Then and there, the cheers went silent. Everyone stared at her now, almost annoyed by what she said and definitely insulted by the suggestion she’d just made. Ysrarald appeared that way most of all, yet he still found the calmness to explain to her. 

“Victims are part of a war. And the Empire rejected us and any aid we would have given them when they signed the White-Gold Concordat. Senseless deaths are always tragic, but they made their choice and so did the people in Solitude when they chose to live in the center of Imperial power.”

His tone was almost condescending, as if he were explaining it to a child. As if she were simple, like everyone had always claimed. It would have made her mad in any other case. Yet not, all her fury was reserved for the actual words he said.

“So you will let a bruised ego determine the lives and deaths of thousands of innocents? Most people don’t care about the Empire or the Stormcloaks or whoever is in power. They simply want to live in peace and be left alone. Who are we to decide that they have to die for some ideal we uphold?”

He responded calmly, though his glare increased. “Their indifference is what allowed the Altmer to come here! These monsters, who see others as inferior and would lord over them. And look how many died because of it! It must end and it will as soon as the Empire is gone and Skyrim is ours once more!”

Gratia couldn’t help herself and laughed. “And how many died during this Civil War? Over a Concordat that was meant to stop further casualties? Here we are, causing more deaths still. And why? Because Skyrim belongs to the Nords? The Nords who once willingly became part of the Empire?”

Almost immediately, brothers Thorvald and Avulstein spoke up, angrily. “Skyrim was a great and beautiful land once. Us Nords once ruled a giant empire of our own. Now, it’s torn by war and the Empire killed the one man who could have brought unity. Are you telling us that our cause is misguided?”

The Huntress turned to them, calmly but with venom in her voice. “Skyrim was bloody and chaotic before the Empire and still is now. So what does that make us? People who live in an embellished past. Who swear fealty to a dead man who simply told us what we wanted to hear in a time of discontent. Who wish for no one in our ancestral land but our own kind. We’ve become no different from the Aldmeri Dominion, except we worship Talos instead of Auri-El.”

That was all that was needed to rend the remaining civility asunder. Suddenly, there were shouts and calls for blood, weapons being drawn. The sound of it chilled her and yet, it didn’t surprise her. How long had these people only heard what they wished to hear? When had they ever been challenged by one of their own, whom they couldn’t write off as a spiteful enemy? 

Especially Ysrarald had now lost all composure, his face red as he shouted at her. “How dare you! How dare you question our cause and besmirch Ulfric Stormcloak! You, who swore an oath to his memory! Who swore an oath to protect Skyrim!”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I do not besmirch Ulfric; I treat him like the man he was. No man deserves unquestionable worship. For all the good he did, he also made countless people suffer. And if he would have approved of the Altmer sacking Solitude for an easy victory of his own, then I spit on his corpse and may Oblivion take his soul!”

A scream of rage was her answer. “Shut your mouth! What do you know? Of Ulfric? Of war? You’re just some giant grunt we saved from the Thalmor’s clutches, that didn’t even consider Skyrim her home for most of her life! All you know is how to swing a mace where we tell you to! If you even had an inkling of sense in that simple head of yours, you would stop talking right now!”

Gratia froze. There it was again. “Simple”. The word she’d been called all her life, to tell her she was not good enough, not smart, swift or strong enough. Again, it was used to dismiss her, to invalidate her. Only now, she knew it wasn’t the truth. She burst out laughing and grinned to his face. 

“Should I be intimidated now? Hurt? Try harder. I may be simple, but you are small, Ysrarald Thrice-Pierced. And I am not talking about stature. You are a small man with small thoughts and small goals, too short-sighted to see past the tip of your own nose. Too hung up on Nord pride and a past that never was to see the bigger picture! Nothing you can say can hurt me. A giant cares not for the opinion of a dwarf!”

By now, the clamp was in an uproar and her commander drew his sword as he bellowed at her. “You overgrown cow! Give me one reason why I shouldn’t put an end to your mooing right here!”

She smirked, not caring for the blood-thirsty shouts of her fellow warriors, simply grabbing her mace off her belt. “Then come do so! And see if the bards will write a pretty song about the great Stormcloak leader who got his head cracked open by a simple cow!”

Immediately, the taunts and screams increased in volume. They chanted for her death, for Ysrarald to teach her the folly of her ways. These people, with whom she had formed such deep comraderies, were now wanting her dead or at least beaten bloody. So far gone were they in their goals that they wanted to silence any voices of dissent, no matter where they came from.

Yet Ysrarald didn’t move. His weapon clutched firmly in his fingers, he stood poised to attack yet didn’t. He stared her up and down, as if he was trying to assess when she’d move first, but she could sense pure fear in his eyes. She understood why. She was the stronger fighter and he knew it.

As such, she didn’t move, didn’t do anything as the chants grew louder. They screams increased, until the Stormcloaks got hoarse and they finally started to realize that nothing was happening at all. Their leader simply stood, clearly too afraid to attack. They stared, with looks of horror and disgust, and it was there that both Gratia and her former friends fully saw him for what he was. A coward, hiding behind the ghost of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, a flawed Jarl but still ten times the leader he was. 

She spat on the ground in front of her, putting away her weapon. “Just as I thought. Consider this the end of my time as a Stormcloak. Have fun with your dreams of a Skyrim that never was or will be. I will seek my purpose elsewhere.”

She turned away, it was only there that he found the courage to bark at her again. “Where? The Imperials? They will all be dead soon. And if you’re one of the most wanted women in all of Skyrim. They will kill you the moment you show yourself. You’re a dead woman walking, Gratia Steel-Fist, even if we don’t get to you first.”

He was right. She knew he was. The Imperials would never accept her. Should she ever show her face to them, she would end up on the executioner’s block in the square. They wanted her as dead as these people now and nowhere she would turn she would be safe. She wouldn’t even make it out of Skyrim if she tried.

Still, that thought didn’t faze her. Even if her journey would end here, her life would be extinguished in this world so far away from home, at least she’d stand up for what was right. She’d made her bed and now, she would lie in it. But she’d be damned if she’d let another decide for her.

She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes gleaming and head held high. “I do not fear death. Or you. Or the Thalmor or the Empire. If I am marked for death, then I will seek it on my own terms. I will not come to the gates of Sovngarde whimpering and begging. I will arrive tearing them down, my story known, and Tsun himself will raise a flagon to me. Farewell. The Hall of Valor awaits me.”

Then she started to walk away, not even bothering to get any other belongings save for the ones on her person. She wouldn’t need any and she refused to stay here any longer. The other Stormcloaks quickly got out of her way, too confused and too upset to do anything. She made her way out of the camp and out of the forest, on the road that would take her to Solitude.

It was there she was now, less than a foot from its barricaded gates and fortified walls. She sat there, wall in her back and overlooking the cliff, biding her time, quietly counting the minutes as she could already see the enormous army of the Aldmeri Dominion approach.

It was odd, she realized, just how at peace she truly was. Even though she knew she would not walk away from here, as the last hour of her life was rapidly ticking away. There was now fear or sorrow, just a strange kind of calmness she hadn’t even felt trapped in the cell of the Hunter’s Nightmare. This was her choice and she was going to see it through.

The ground started to shake as thousands of Altmer marched towards the city. She swore she could smell the fear in the air as they got near, as she heard the shouts on the ramparts of soldiers gathering. Battle was imminent and it was very likely that Solitude was going to fall as the Aldmeri Dominion thundered towards the gates.

Suddenly, the immense force came to a halt. They stood at attention, golden weaponry at the ready. A man then stepped out and called up, arrogance dripping off every word.

“General Tullius! You have violated our accord! You stand accused of orchestrated a revolt against our rightful presence here. Surrender yourself and the city now and we will not burn it to the ground!”

He was lying, she knew for certain. The Altmer were not known to be merciful. Needless to say, the soldiers on the wall remained utterly quiet. This didn’t please the man at all.

“You are a selfish man, general! Waging war while we come in peace. Having your serpentine housecarl slaughter harmless diplomats. And now, you are willing to condemn all these men, women and children to death? But I suppose we were naïve to think you were honorable at all.”

Again, there was no answer, but from her hiding place, Gratia could practically hear the gnashing of teeth. She didn’t blame the Imperials. She knew that the White-Gold Concordat was not a voluntarily agreement. Even she knew of the assassination attempt on general Tullius and how his housecarl Yamamura, a man of Akaviri descent, had prevented it. To hear these lies coming out this Altmer’s mouth made her want to hurl.

By now, the commander had clearly become fed up with the silence. “Very well then. You have sealed your fate. Mark my words, general. Before nightfall, Solitude will burn!”

He turned to his soldiers, about to raise the signal to attack and it was there that Gratia saw her chance. She stood up and grabbing her mace, she came out of her hiding spot. She charged at the battering ram, ready to meet her fate.

The four Altmer operating the battering ram saw her coming. Stunned but alert, they drew their swords to cut her down. Her years as a Huntress, however, made her quicker. She parried the first swing before bringing the down the mace on his head, then slammed the second one in the gut. She swung the weapon in a wide arch to catch the other two in the blow, blood spraying everywhere. She picked up a fire scroll she saw rolling away from one of the soldiers and an idea struck her. She picked it and rapidly unleashed a blazing inferno onto the battering ram.

As the device caught fire and burned, she sucked in a deep breath and looked around. The Altmer soldiers hadn’t moved yet, too stunned by this sudden development. It gave her only a small window of time and she seized it with both hands. She lifted her head and shouted to the ramparts above, as loud as she could so every Imperial soldier in the area would hear her.

“People of Skyrim! My name is Gratia Steel-Fist! The She-Bear of the Stormcloaks, but I am not your enemy! The enemy is here, at your gates, and has always been! The Thalmor outlawed worship of Talos because it would divide us! Because it would make us fight among each other instead of against them! And while brother fought brother, they could go unchecked! And now, they would kill you all.”

All eyes were on her, both friend and foe. She could feel them study her, mostly with scorn and skepticism. She could hear taut bowstrings on both the ramparts and in front of her, where she also saw how weapons were drawn. She couldn’t blame the Imperials for that, but she also couldn’t care. As far as they were concerned, she should be dead and they would get that wish soon enough. In fact, they would get to witness it first hand, in a way they would never forget. She glanced up at them from underneath her helmet, not seeing their eyes behind theirs.

“I am not here to ask forgiveness! I’m here to die! To atone for the senseless fight I partook in. I give my life to hold off these Thalmor a little longer. All I ask of you is to rise up! Be you Men, Mer or Beastfolk, rise up! For freedom from tyranny! For dignity, regardless of race! For Talos and the Divines! For the Empire and Stormcloaks that bled for us to fight the Dominion! Rise! For Skyrim!”

By now, the Thalmor started to advance, war cries in Elvish erupting all through the ranks. She could see the sun reflect in their blades and axes, the distorted faces lusting for blood and she knew that her life at a close. She took in a deep breath, raising her mace and shouting her final words with the cold calmness of one who had embraced her destiny.

“Sovngarde!”

As that word reverberated off the wall, she charged at the endless horde. They did in return. The world almost seemed to move in slow motion as the sharp blades got closer to her skin, as these Altmer descended down on her to cut her to ribbons. She could only smile. She’d be sure to take at least a few with her before she died.

Then, out of nowhere, there was a crackling sound. She barely noticed it, too focused on facing her foes, until it swelled in volume and came close enough. Suddenly, it transformed into a deafening noise of thunder as a lightning bolt burrowed into the ground, roasting several Altmer on the spot and flinging several others away.

For a moment, the Huntress stood nailed to the spot, blinking in horror and confusion at what had just happened. It was only then that she felt a presence behind her. She looked over her shoulder and found her jaw hanging open.

Standing there, his spear still crackling with electricity, was Ornstein. How he had gotten down with her this quickly, where he even came from, was a mystery. She was about to question it, only to fall silent as he stepped up to her and stood beside her. He raised his spear in the direction of the Dominion’s forces, then repeated her war cry, his commanding voice carrying through the area like a lion’s roar. 

“Sovngarde!”

This show of allegiance, expressed in one word, stirred the Thalmor back into action. Horrid curses were flung at the Imperial Legate as the Altmer soldiers charged at him. Gratia braced herself anew, focusing on the incoming forces, just wondering why Ornstein was taking her side now of all times. Not that it mattered. It seemed that regardless of their history, they were going to die together…

“Sovngarde!”

“Sovngarde!”

“Sovngarde beckons!”

“Sovngarde awaits!”

“Victory or Sovngarde!”

Suddenly, a chorus of voices rang out, so loud and so bloodcurdling that it drowned out the charge of the Aldmeri Dominion. It was accompanied by the banging of weapons against shields, the sound like violent wave crashing against rock during a storm. A volley of arrows started raining down on the Thalmor from an unknown source and out of nowhere, hundreds of Stormcloaks charged out of their hiding places, tearing into the unprepared flanks of the Dominion. 

For only a second, Gratia was certain she was dreaming. The Stormcloaks were coming to the aid of Solitude. To _her_ aid. 

Why, she couldn’t fathom. Perhaps it was a lingering sense of camaraderie. Perhaps they were shamed by her bravery in facing the enemy head on. Or perhaps it was the sight of a Stormcloak and an Imperial standing together against the Aldmeri Dominion. Whatever the true reason, it didn’t matter. She had work to do. There was a battle to fight and now, perhaps to win.

With a newfound sense of determination, she threw herself at the nearest Altmeri soldiers. Using her size and strength, she tore into them, smashing the teeth out of their skulls and breaking their bones. When a stray blow of a warhammer cracked open her helmet, she killed its owner, threw the now broken piece of armor away and clawed her own bloodied hand over her face to apply a primitive war paint. Before this fight was over, they would know the She-Bear of the Stormcloaks. 

Ornstein was living up to his reputation as well. The towering Legate was mowing down soldiers left and right, conjuring massive waves of lightning to annihilate whole swaths of them. He skewered several men on his spear, then set them ablaze with electricity before tossing the now burning bodies back into the fray, showing his enemies exactly why he was called the Lion of Solitude. 

Their alliance had stirred something in the city of Solitude. Soon, ropes were thrown down the city walls and several warriors climbed down, only to burst through the first line of defense and take on the Thalmor as well. Captain Aldis and his most elite forces steamed through the nearest unfortunate foes. The Penitus Oculatus started to ruthlessly cull the infantry. A Breton commander and his silver-haired companion brought lightning, fire and blood to their enemies. Even Tullius, his housecarl Yamamura and Legate Rikke threw themselves into the fray. The city was fighting back and they were going to make sure the Aldmeri Dominion remembered.

The battle seemed to last for hours. The air was heavy with the smell of blood and it took great effort not to trip over the corpses. More and more soldiers had started to come through the gates to partake and every time the Altmer seemed to get a handle on how to deal with their predicament, a new wave was sent out all rallying under the now terrifying cry of “Sovngarde!”. After a while, even some reinforcements Tullius had called for the days before made it to city and what once seemed like a hopeless siege for Solitude was quickly turning ugly for the Thalmor.

Gratia was still fighting for her life when she noticed the first enemies fleeing. What were once arrogant taunts were now turning into panic calls for retreat and in the distance, she could hear the violent crashing of wood as the ballistae and catapults on the walls sunk the ships in the bay. A rush of adrenaline ran through her. Solitude no longer simply holding out. They were winning and the Aldmeri Dominion knew it. 

She would have smiled at that fact, were it not for the fact that suddenly, a sword entered her vision from the corner of her eye. She only barely had time to bring up mace to block it, straining her muscles in order to force the weapon back. The Huntress looked up to see its owner and snarled when she found herself face to face with the Thalmor commander. 

The man growled at her, before withdrawing his weapon and attacking again. His movements were quick and aggressive, fueled by unbridled fury. Even if she didn’t understand the Elvish curses he threw at her, she knew his motives. Even though his people were running, at least he wanted to take down the one whose presence had resulted in their wholesale slaughter. 

By now, she was tired. Blood was seeping through her armor from a thousand cuts she had sustained and her lungs were burning. She had trouble standing and she could feel herself becoming dizzy from the loss of blood. Still, she fought with every inch of strength she still had. She’d be damned if she’d make it easy now.

So she swung and blocked, her movements much slower and heavier now. She fought fiercely, befitting of her name, yet she wasn’t able to keep up. Soon, the blade burrowed into her shoulder and she screamed as blood spurted out. 

The Thalmor commander grinned, before pulling out the sword slowly. The pain nearly made Gratia pass out, her vision blurring, but as she saw him pull back to stab her again, something inside her shifted. Overtaken by a last mad burst of survival, she moved. She tackled him to the ground and, using nothing but her steel plated gauntlets, she started to furiously punch him in the face. Over and over, with some much force that he didn’t get the chance to defend himself.

She hit him, again and again, not stopping even though he no longer made any sound. It was only when she felt his skull violently crack that she stopped and she looked down to see that arrogant face turned to mush. She grinned at his dying body, spitting out the blood collecting in her mouth, before all strength eluded her and she collapsed. 

It was over. The battle was over and Solitude was still standing. All because she had stood up. All because she showed courage in the face of the defeat. Here she was, dying…but it was on her terms and no one else’s.

Gratia chuckled at that. That was alright with her. She never expected to leave here alive anyway. At least she went the way she wanted to, proudly and fearlessly with a clear conscious. She lay back and closed her eyes, feeling her life seep away with the blood. She had fought the good fight and now, Sovngarde was hers…

“Well, Gratia. It looks like we meet again.”

The Huntress almost groaned when she heard that cheerful voice. Despite how tired and in pain she was, she turned towards it, only to be met with the smiling face of Talos. She gave him a wry smile of her own in return, jokingly scoffing.

“It seems so. Though to be fair, I wasn’t looking for you. It’s Shor I’m after.”

The God of Warriors didn’t seem the least bit offended. “Of course you are. Aren’t all people who consider themselves proud Nords? And what a way you petitioned him! Taking a bloody chunk out of the army of the Aldmeri Dominion? When you do things, you don’t do them by halves!”

He reached out to her, offering his hand and for some reason, she took it. Almost instantly, she could feel all fatigue and agony slip from her body. Almost immediately, the blurriness was gone from her eyes and she now saw her environment.

She was not in Skyrim. Instead, the place she was in had deep colors and strange smells, while battle hymns were carried on the wind. In the distance, there were statues going down a long path, which eventually ended at a bridge made of bones. Beyond that, a palace, so grand and beautiful that it made even the Blue Palace look small and dreary. Her face brightened. She knew where she was.

“So…this is Sovngarde? And that’s the Hall of Valor, across the Whalebone Bridge?”

Talos smiled. “Yes. This is where those who died honorably go. It is quite the place, with tourneys, banquets and mead. And many brave, legendary warriors as well. There are so many people who’d no doubt like to meet you. Like Ysgramor. High King Torygg. Dragonborn of ages past. Oh, and Ulfric Stormcloak. He is particularly impressed with you, especially how you handled Ysrarald…”

That last one had her look at him in surprise. The leader of the Stormcloaks was there and was actually proud of her choices? She definitely didn’t expect that. Still, it was good to know that she wouldn’t have to meet with a powerful warrior bearing her a grudge, she supposed. 

She sucked in a deep breath. She had dawdled here long enough. Her part was played and her story over. Now all that was left for her was to go up to the Whalebone Bridge, tell gatekeeper Tsun her name and pass on into eternity.

She took a step forward, only to feel Talos grab her arm. The Huntress stopped and looked back at him. When he didn’t let go, she cocked her head.

“What is it?”

He smiled. “It is not yet your time.”

She frowned at that, her earlier sense of happiness suddenly vanishing and replaced by confusion. What did he mean with that? She was dead now, wasn’t she? She was standing in Sovngarde. Then why couldn’t she simply go into the Hall of Heroes?

A chuckle came from his mouth. “Your body is as stubborn as you are, Gratia Steel-Fist. It is fighting for life in the hands of a healer and right now, it is winning.”

Gratia stared at him, dumbfounded. As she heard those words, she suddenly felt somewhere between laughing and crying. All her life, she had been told she could do nothing right. Now, it seemed she couldn’t even die the way she wanted to.

The God of Heroes noted and shook his head, smiling again. “Don’t be so crestfallen, She-Bear. You will make your way here eventually. Enjoy this small taste, but cherish life while you still have it. You’re not done yet.”

Not done… What did he mean with that? As far as she was concerned, she was. She was still a wanted woman, having betrayed the Empire and renounced the Stormcloaks. What consequences could possibly await her in a world where she had made nothing but enemies?

“What shall become of me? I hadn’t planned anything beyond this final stand. How will my story continue now, when I am not the atoner who died at the gates?”

Talos’s blue eyes bore directly into hers. “Then be the atoner who fought at the gates and lived. Skyrim has many tales of valiant warriors who die in battle, sure enough, but they all seem to forget… Aren’t the greatest warriors those who survive their battles and live to grow old?”

Before she realized it, she smiled as well. He was right, of course, even if she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to admit it. As romantic as it sounded to die defending a city, what point was there to it if she could still do more. She made a choice by rising up at Solitude, by declaring open war on the Aldmeri Dominion and even if she would be considered a mere criminal and traitor, she should still see it through.

A sense of determination took over again, as she cast one last look at the hall of Heroes. Now was not yet the time for melodies, mead and melees. It was time to wake up. Even if she was scared of what awaited her back in the world of the living. 

“Then I suppose Sovngarde will have to wait a little longer. I’ll go back now. To face the consequences of my actions in full.”

Talos put a hand on her shoulder and for a moment, she thought he looked proud. “I will be there to watch you and am curious to see what you will do next. Farewell, Gratia. Until we meet again at the end of your days…”

A splitting headache took over all of Gratia’s senses when she at last woke up. Jolts of pain coursed through her body. A groan escaped her dry throat. Apparently, she wasn’t dead, but she sure wished she was. 

“Easy. Do not move too much. You fought like a bear out there, so you are probably still sore.”

The person spoke softly, but it sounded like someone was drilling into her skull. She forced her limp, tired neck to turn her head. When her eyes finally focused on the large form beside her, she gasped softly.

“Ornstein?”

The Legate grinned at her, seemingly relieved to see her awake. She, however, wasn’t entirely sure she was happy to see him again. She tried to move away for him, only to cringe in pain. He responded by grabbing what she recognized as a health potion and she didn’t protest when he put it to her mouth, making her drink the contents. Soon, the pain dulled a little and she lay back, taking a deep breath as she asked the question she feared the most.

“Am I in the dungeons of the Blue Palace?”

He shook his head. “No, you are in one of its guest rooms. We found you as the enemy fled and Elisif thought it unfair that the one who saved this city would be submitted to the dungeons. Even if you are a Stormcloak.”

She only gave him a wry smile at that, though she had to admit she was grateful for the accommodations. “So what is going to happen to me now?”

He sat back with a chuckle. “Well, that all depends. You have been unconscious for several days and a great many things happened during that time. Most if not all of your brethren have surrendered to the Empire. Your leader, Ysrarald Thrice-Pierced, offered his allegiance, on the condition that the Stormcloaks would be allowed to participate in the upcoming war against the Dominion. He and Tullius are hammering out the details as we speak. That means you are very unlikely to lose your head.”

The moment she heard her former commander’s name, Gratia could only blink. So Ysrarald had actually come to her aid, even if he had denounced her views earlier? That was hard to believe, yet one look at Ornstein’s serious expression told her he was not lying. It almost wanted to make her laugh. Either her fearlessness had shamed him into action or her bravery finally made him understand just what was at stake. Still, she felt too tired to be shocked. 

“That’s good, I suppose.”

The commander showed the widest smile she’d ever seen on him. “I certainly think so. That potion I gave you should have you feel better soon. Once you do, I am to get you into some clothes and bring you to court. There are a lot of people who want to see you.”

She looked up, surprised and suspicious. “See me? Who? Why?”

“Generals from Cyrodiil. Stormcloak officers. Emissaries of the Emperor. Resistance movements from Valenwood, Elseweyr and the Summerset Isles. An-Xileel from Black Marsh. Crowns and Forebearers from Hammerfell. Leaders from Morrowind, High Rock and Jarls from here in Skyrim. All eager to meet the woman who united Skyrim at the gates of Solitude.”

As he rattled off this list, the Huntress couldn’t help but feel intensely overwhelmed. All of those had come here to Solitude for her? Still, why did they all come to gawk at her? She wanted to voice this, but Ornstein already noticed her confusion and looked her in the eye with utmost seriousness. 

“You did not just cut down some Thalmor and make a rousing speech. You are the one that openly challenged the Aldmeri Dominion while the Empire was forced to remain silent. Who caused nearly a third of their army to be annihilated. You are the person who caused the two warring factions in Skyrim to band together against a common enemy. You stand for something, a symbol people of action people crave. All eyes are on you now and your role in this upcoming war will be of utmost importance.”

Suddenly, the blankets no longer provided Gratia any warmth. Her blood turned to icicles and she felt her hands tremble. She could feel bile trying to escape out her throat and she desperately looked around for something to vomit in.

She had expected to die. Wanted to die. To atone for all the bad choices she had made in this strange land. She had expected to be resting in Sovngarde… Now, she had woken up to find herself having become a symbol of an even greater war. A beacon others gathered around in the calm before the storm. It was frightening beyond words and almost too much to take.

The Legate noticed her distress. “I know it is a lot to take in. Something tells me you never expected to walk away alive. But you did and now, you have changed everything. One woman who did an extraordinary thing. On the back of that, who knows what else you can do?”

His kind words stunned her, but she couldn’t help but repeat that question as well. “What can a simple foot soldier like me do for the war of an Empire? A former Stormcloak, who was once its enemy? Why would anyone look to me?”

His answer came frighteningly swiftly. “Because you have proven yourself more than all of those things, more than once. We have been enemies, certainly enough. Yet regardless of our checkered history, I respect you. I respect you as a strong, determined warrior who stands up for what she believes in, odds be damned. There are worse people to rally around and be inspired by, do you not think?”

The Huntress still said nothing, taken aback by hearing such support from her rival. How could she, really? Never before in her entire life had anyone ever been so kind, so respectful. So convinced of her worth and her ability to rise above the low expectations she’d always been plagued with. All her life, she had looked for someone to have faith in and now, she had found it here, in a man she had once considered her enemy. The man, she realized, who had inspired her to do what she did in the first place. 

She couldn’t even consider him wrong now. What she had done was extraordinary. A far cry from the Huntress who felt so ill at ease at Yharnam once. This land was her home now and she had done what she needed to defend it from forces who sought to destroy it.

She was no longer Simple Gratia. She was Gratia Steel-Fist. She-Bear of the Stormcloaks. The woman at Solitude who rallied Skyrim against the Dominion. One deed of contrition that changed everything and now rang loudly across an entire Empire. She almost smiled. Talos was right as well. Sometimes, people needn’t be grand to change history. All people needed was a story and the one she had told on the battlefield was magnificent, deserving to be heard.

That thought, a revelation, brought strength and will back to her body. She found herself sitting up, trying to move her arms and legs. She pushed back the covers, then turned to Ornstein.

“The pain is dying down. I should get dressed now and face the court. I am ready.”

The Legate nodded, then got up and called for a courtier. He stood outside as they entered, helping her out of bed, bathing her and clothing her in a fresh set of garments. They were of fine quality, yet still simple in design and comfortable to wear. She was immensely grateful for that. She would have been ill at ease in an elaborate dress.

Once they were done making her presentable, she took a deep breath. This was it. The one thing she never expected when she made her choice to go to Solitude. To atone for misguidedness and do what was right. She was here, alive, present to see the consequences of her actions. The moment she got out of this room, the continent of Tamriel, _her_ world, would change forever and nothing she knew would be the same. 

With that thought, she left the room and joined the Legate waiting outside. She still had a limp as she walked, cringing with every clumsy step, and Ornstein immediately offered his arm to help her stand more easily. She looked up at him and he squeezed her hand with a reassuring smile, motioning her to follow him. Together, they then walked down the splendid hallways, ready to meet with a court full of people desperate to see the woman who stood at the gates of Solitude.

The woman brought here by Talos, to write history.

She braced herself and put on the grin of a warrior, suddenly feeling that same peace and courage she had felt in battle. Let them look at her. Let them judge her. She was no longer some simple woman they could look down on. She was the one who faced down the Aldmeri Dominion and somehow lived. Now, she was going to commit to it and play her part in a war that was long overdue. Her story was worth hearing and it was nowhere near over yet.


End file.
